OF  THB 
OWIYEaRaifT 
Of 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


« 

J .  \ 


. 


UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION; 

EARTHLY   CARE, 
A   HEAVENLY   DISCIPLINE; 


AND 


OTHER    SKETCHES. 


BY 

MRS.  HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

AUTHOB    01    "TWCLE    TOM'S    CABIN,"     "THE    MATFLOWEE,"    &0. 


of  $8li8.  Xtotot's 


WILLIS  P.  HAZARD,  178  CHESTNUT  ST., 

PHILADELPHIA. 

1853. 


Stereotyped  by  S  L  o  T  E  &  MOONEY,  Philadelphia. 
KITE  &  WALTON,  Printers, 


PAGE 

ACCOUNT    OP    MRS.   BEECHER    STOWE    AND    HER 

FAMILY,  5 

UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION,  -        -       -       -    30 

EARTHLY  CARE,  A  HEAVENLY  DISCIPLINE,       -    43 
A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES  IN  THE  COUNTRY,  -    56 
CHILDREN,       -  .....    79 

THE  TWO  BIBLES,    ------    84 

LETTER  FROM  MAINE,  NO.  1,  -       -       -        -    92 

LETTER  FROM  MAINE,  NO.  2,  -       -       -       -  103 

CHRISTMAS,  OR  THE  GOOD  FAIRY,    -  -  109 

•  (iii) 

M313745 


nf  3Jh&  3J 
{tuft  {in  /Jimilt[. 

BY    AN    ALABAMA    MAN. 


THE  family  to  which  Mrs.  Stowe  belongs,  is 
more  widely  and  favourably  known  than  almost 
any  other  in  the  United  States.  It  consists  of 
the  following  persons  : 

1.  Rev.  Lyman  Beecher,  the  father,  Doctor  of 
Divinity,  ex-President  of  Lane  Theological  Semi- 
nary, and  late  pastor  of  a  Presbyterian  Church 
at  Cincinnati,  Ohio. 

2.  Rev.  William  Beecher,  pastor  at  Chilicothe, 
Ohio. 

3.  Rev.  Edward  Beecher,  pastor  at  Boston, 
Massachusetts. 

4.  Rev.  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  pastor  at  Brook- 
lyn, Long  Island. 

5.  Rev.  Charles  Beecher,  pastor  at  Newark, 
New  Jersey. 

(5) 


6  ACCOUNTOF 

6.  Rev.  Thomas  Beecher,  pastor  at  Williams- 
burg,  New  Jersey. 

7.  Rev.    George    Beecher,    deceased    several 
years  since.     His  death  was  caused  by  the  ac- 
cidental discharge  of   a  gun.      At   the  time  he 
was  one  of  the  most  eminent  men  in  the  Western 
Church. 

8.  Mr.  James  Beecher,  engaged  in  commercial 
business  at  Boston. 

9.  Miss  Catharine  Beecher. 

10.  Mrs.  Harriet  B.  Stowe. 

11.  Mrs.  Perkins. 

12.  Mrs.  Hooker. 

Twelve !  the  apostolic  number.  And  of  the 
twelve,  seven  apostles  of  the  pulpit,  and  two  of 
the  pen,  after  the  manner  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. Of  the  other  three,  one  has  been  swept 
into  commerce  by  the  strong  current  setting  that 
way  in  America;  and  the  other  two,  wives  of 
lawyers  of  respectable  standing,  and  mothers  of 
families,  have  been  absorbed  by  the  care  and 
affections  of  domestic  life.  They  are  said  to  be 
no  way  inferior,  in  point  of  natural  endowments, 
to  the  nine  who  have  chosen  to  play  their  parts 
in  life  before  a  larger  public.  Indeed,  persons 


MRS.  BEBCHER  STOWE.  7 

who  know  intimately  all  the  twelve,  are  puzzled 
to  assign  superiority  to  any  one  of  them.  With 
the  shades  of  difference  which  always  obtain 
between  individual  characters,  they  bear  a  strik- 
ing resemblance  to  each  other,  not  only  physically, 
but  intellectually  and  morally.  All  of  them  are 
about  the  common  size — the  doctor  being  a  trifle 
below  it,  and  some  of  the  sons  a  trifle  above  it — 
neither  stout  nor  slight,  but  compactly  and  rug- 
gedly built.  Their  movements  and  gestures  have 
much  of  the  abruptness  and  want  of  grace  com- 
mon in  Yankee  land,  where  the  opera  and  danc- 
ing school  are  considered  as  institutions  of  Satan. 
Their  features  are  large  and  irregular,  and  though 
not  free  from  a  certain  manly  beauty  in  the  men, 
are  scarcely  redeemed  from  homeliness  in  the 
women  by  the  expression  of  intelligence  and  wit 
which  lights  them  up,  and  fairly  sparkles  in  their 
bluish  gray  eyes. 

All  of  them  have  the  energy  of  character, 
restless  activity,  strong  convictions,  tenacity  of 
purpose,  deep  sympathies,  and  spirit  of  self-sacri- 
fice, which  are  such  invaluable  qualities  in  the 
character  of  propagandists.  It  would  be  impos- 
sible for  the  theologians  among  them  to  be  mem- 


8  ACCOUNT  OF 

bers  of  any  other  church  than  the  church  militant. 
Father  and  sons,  they  have  been  in  the  thickest 
of  the  battles  fought  in  the  church  and  by  it ; 
and  always  have  moved  together  in  solid  column. 
To  them  questions  of  scholastic  theology  are 
mummeries,  dry  and  attractionless  ;  they  are  prac- 
tical, living  in  the  real  present,  dealing  with  ques- 
tions which  palpitate  with  vitality.  Temperance, 
foreign  and  home-missions,  the  influence  of  com- 
merce on  public  morality,  the  conversion  of  young 
men,  the  establishment  of  theological  seminaries, 
education,  colonization,  abolition,  the  political 
obligations  of  Christians;  on  matters  such  as 
these  do  the  Beechers  expend  their  energies. 
Nor  do  they  disdain  taking  an  active  part  in  pub- 
lic affairs;  one  of  them  was  appointed  at  New 
York  City  to  address  Kossuth  on  his  arrival. 
What  is  remarkable  is  that,  though  they  have 
come  in  violent  collision  with  many  of  the  abuses 
of  American  society,  their  motives  have  never 
been  seriously  attacked.  This  exemption  from 
the  ordinary  lot  of  reformers  is  owing  not  only 
to  their  consistent  disinterestedness,  but  to  a  cer- 
tain Yankee  prudence,  which  prevents  their  ad- 
vancing without  being  sure  of  battalions  behind 


MRS.  BEECHEE  STOWE.  9 

them ;  and  also  to  a  reputation  the  family  has 
agquired  for  eccentricity.  As  public  speakers 
they  are  far  above  mediocrity ;  not  graceful,  but 
eloquent,  with  a  lively  scorn  of  the  mean  and 
perception  of  the  comic,  which  overflow  in  pun- 
gent wit  and  withering  satire ;  and  sometimes,  in 
the  heat  of  extemporaneous  speaking,  in  biting 
sarcasm.  Their  style  of  oratory  would  often 
seem,  to  a  staid,  church-going  Englishman,  to 
contrast  too  strongly  with  the  usual  decorum  of 
the  pulpit. 

Nine  of  the  Beechers  are  authors.  They  are 
known  to  the  reading  and  religious  public  of  the 
United  States,  by  reviews,  essays,  sermons,  ora- 
tions, debates,  and  discourses  on  a  great  variety 
of  subjects,  chiefly  of  local  or  momentary  inter- 
est. All  of  these  productions  are  marked  by 
vigorous  thought ;  very  few  by  that  artistic  ex- 
cellence, that  conformity  to  the  laws  of  the  ideal, 
which  alone  confer  a  lasting  value  on  the  creations 
of  the  brain.  Many  of  them  are  controversial, 
or  wear  an  aggressive  air  which  is  unmistakable. 
Those  which  are  of  durable  interest,  and  of  a 
high  order  of  literary  merit,  are  six  temperance 
sermons  by  Dr.  Beecher ;  a  volume  of  practical 
1* 


10  ACCOUNT  OF 

sermons  by  the  same ;  the  "  Virgin  and  her  Son," 
an  imaginative  work  by  Charles  Beecher,  with  an 
introduction  by  Mrs.  Stowe;  some  articles  on 
Biblical  literature,  by  Edward  Beecher ;  "  Truth 
stranger  than  Fiction,"  and  other  tales,  by  Miss 
Catharine  Beecher;  "Domestic  Economy,"  by 
the  same ;  "  Twelve  Lectures  to  Young  Men,''  by 
Henry  Ward  Beecher ;  "  An  Introduction  to  the 
Works  of  Charlotte  Elizabeth,"  by  Mrs.  Stowe, 
being  a  collection  of  stories  originally  published 
in  the  newspapers ;  and  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin." 
I  am  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  place  in  this  category 
many  letters,  essays,  and  addresses  on  Education, 
and  particularly  those  from  the  pen  of  Catharine 
Beecher.  Before  Mrs.  Stowe's  last  book,  her 
celebrity  was  hardly  equal  to  her  maiden  sister's. 
Catharine  had  a  wider  reputation  as  an  authoress, 
and  her  indefatigable  activity  in  the  cause  of 
education  had  won  for  her  very  general  esteem. 
I  may  add  in  this  connection  that  it  is  to  her  the 
United  States  are  indebted  for  the  only  exten- 
sively useful  association  for  preparing  and  send- 
ing capable  female  teachers  to  the  west.  She 
had  the  energy  and  the  tact  to  organize  and  put 
it  in  successful  operation. 


MRS.  BEECHEE  STOWE.         11 

Such  is  the  family,  in  the  bosom  of  which  Mrs. 
Stowe's  character  has  been  formed.     We  cannot 
dismiss  it  without  pausing  before  the  venerable 
figure  of  the  father,  to  whom  the  honour  of  de- 
termining the  bent  of  the  children  properly  be- 
longs.    Dr.  Lyman  Beecher  is  now  seventy-eight 
years  old.     Born  before  the  American  Revolu- 
tion, he  has  been,  until  recently,  actively  and 
ably  discharging  duties  which  would  be  onerous 
to  most  men  in  the  prime  of  life.     He  was  the 
son   of    a  New  England   blacksmith,   and  was 
brought  up  to  the  trade  of  his  father.     He  had 
arrived  at  mature  age  when  he  quitted  the  anvil, 
and  began  his  collegiate  studies  at  Yale  College, 
New  Haven.     Ten  years  later,  we  find  him  pastor 
of  the  church  at  Litchfield,  and  rising  into  fame 
as  a  pulpit  orator.     His  six  sermons  on  temper- 
ance extended  his  reputation  through  the  United 
States ;  I  might  say  through  Europe,  for  they 
ran  rapidly  through  several  editions  in  England, 
and  were  translated  into  several  languages  on  the 
Continent.     Being  now  favourably  known,  he  was 
called  to  the  pastoral  charge  of  the  most  influen- 
tial Presbyterian  Church  at  Boston,  where  he  re- 
mained until  1832.     In  that  year,  a  project  long 


12  ACCOUNT    OF 

entertained  by  that  portion  of  the  Presbyterian 
Church,  whose  active  and  enlightened  piety  and 
liberal  tendencies  had  gained  for  it  the  name  of 
New  School,  was  put  into  execution;  the  Lane 
Theological  and  Literary  Seminary  was  founded. 
Its  object  being  to  prepare  young  men  for  the 
gospel  ministry,  such  facilities  for  manual  labour 
were  offered  by  it,  as  to  make  it  feasible  for  any 
young  man  of  industry  to  defray,  by  his  own 
exertions,  a  large  part  of  the  expenses  of  his 
own  education.  Dr.  Beecher  had  long  been  re- 
garded as  the  only  man  competent  to  direct  an 
institution  which,  it  was  fondly  hoped,  would  de- 
monstrate the  practicability  of  educating  mind 
and  body  at  the  same  time,  infuse  new  energy 
into  the  work  of  domestic  and  foreign  missions, 
and  revolutionize  the  Presbyterian  church.  A 
large  corps  of  learned  and  able  professors  was 
selected  to  aid  him.  The  Doctor  removed  to  his 
new  home  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of 
Cincinnati,  and  remained  there  until  1850,  and 
with  what  success  in  his  chief  object  we  shall 
hereafter  see. 

A  certain  eccentricity  of  manner  and  charac- 
ter, and  sharpness  of  repartee,  have  given  rise  to 


MRS.  BEECHEE  STOWE.          13 

hundreds  of  amusing  anecdotes  respecting  Dr. 
Beecher.  Some  of  them  paint  the  man. 

His  lively  sense  of  the  comic  elements  in  every- 
thing, breaks  out  on  the  most  unlikely  occasions. 
One  dark  night,  as  he  was  driving  home  with  h*is 
wife  and  Mrs.  Stowe  in  the  carriage,  the  whole 
party  was  upset  over  a  hank  about  fifteen  feet 
high.  They  had  no  sooner  extricated  themselves 
from  the  wreck,  than  Mrs.  Beecher  and  Mrs. 
Stowe,  who  were  unhurt,  returned  thanks  for  their 
providential  escape.  "  Speak  for  yourselves," 
said  the  doctor,  who  was  feeling  his  bruises,  "  I 
have  got  a  good  many  hard  bumps,  any  how." 

In  many  matters  he  is  what  Miss  Olivia  would 
have  called  "shiftless."  None  of  the  Goldsmith 
family  were  more  so.  No  appeal  to  him  for 
charity,  or  a  contribution  to  a  good  cause,  ever 
goes  unresponded  to,  so  long  as  he  has  any  money 
in  his  pockets.  As  the  family  income  is  not  un- 
limited, this  generosity  is  sometimes  productive 
of  inconvenience.  One  day  his  wife  had  given 
him  from  the  common  purse  twenty-five  or  thirty 
dollars  in  bills,  with  particular  instructions  to  buy 
a  coat,  of  which  he  stood  in  need.  He  went 
down  to  the  city  to  make  the  purchase,  but  stop- 


14  ACCOUNT  OF 

ping  on  the  way  to  a  meeting  in  behalf  of  foreign 
missions,  the  box  was  handed  round,  and  in  went 
his  little  roll  of  bills.  He  forgot  his  coat  in  his 
anxiety  for  the  Sandwich  Islanders. 

Well  do  I  remember  the  first  time  I  heard  him 
preach.  It  was  seventeen  years  ago.  From  early 
childhood  I  had  been  taught  to  reverence  the  name 
of  the  great  divine  and  orator,  and  I  had  long 
promised  myself  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  him. 
My  first  Sunday  morning  in  Cincinnati  found  me 
sitting  with  his  congregation.  The  pastor  was 
not  as  punctual  as  the  flock.  Several  minutes 
had  elapsed  after  the  regular  hour  for  beginning 
the  service,  when  one  of  the  doors  opened,  and  I 
saw  a  hale  looking  old  gentleman  enter.  As  he 
pulled  off  his  hat,  half  a  dozen  papers  covered 
with  notes  of  sermons  fluttered  down  to  the  floor. 
The  hat  appeared  to  contain  a  good  many  more. 
Stooping  down  and  picking  them  up  deliberately,  he 
came  scuttling  down,  along  the  aisle,  with  a  step 
so  quick  and  resolute  as  rather  to  alarm  certain 
prejudices  I  had  on  the  score  of  clerical  solem- 
nity. Had  I  met  him  on  a  parade  ground,  I 
should  have  singled  him  out  as  some  general  in 
undress,  spite  of  the  decided  stoop  contracted  in 


MRS.  BEECHEE  STOWE.         15 

study ;  the  iron-gray  hair  brushed  stiffly  towards 
the  back  of  the  head ;  the  keen,  sagacious  eyes, 
the  firm,  hard  lines  of  the  brow  and  wrinkled 
visage,  and  the  passion  and  power  latent  about 
the  mouth,  with  its  long  and  scornful  under-lip, 
bespoke  a  character  more  likely  to  attack  than  to 
defend,  to  do  than  to  suffer.  His  manner  did  not 
change  my  first  impression.  The  ceremonies  pre- 
liminary to  the  sermon  were  dispatched  in  rather 
a  summary  way.  A  petition  in  the  long  prayer 
was  expressed  so  pithily  I  have  never  forgotten 
it.  I  forget  now  what  reprehensible  intrigue  our 
rulers  were  busy  in  at  the  time,  but  the  doctor, 
after  praying  for  the  adoption  of  various  useful 
measures,  alluded  to  their  conduct  in  the  follow- 
ing terms:  "And,  0  Lord!  grant  we  "may  not 
despise  our  rulers ;  and  grant  that  they  may  not 
act  so,  that  we  can't  help  it."  It  may  be  doubted 
whether  any  English  Bishop  has  ever  uttered  a 
similar  prayer  for  King  and  Parliament.  To  de- 
liver his  sermon,  the  preacher  stood  bolt  upright, 
stiff  as  a  musket.  At  first,  he  twitched  off  and 
replaced  his  spectacles  a  dozen  times  in  as  many 
minutes  with  a  nervous  motion,  gesturing  mean- 
while with  frequent  pump  handle  strokes  of  his 


16  ACCOUNT  OF 

right  arm;  but  as  he  went  on,  his  unaffected 
language  began  to  glow  with  animation,  his  simple 
style  became  figurative  and  graphic,  and  flashes 
of  irony  lighted  up  the  dark  groundwork  of  his 
Puritanical  reasoning.  Smiles  and  tears  chased 
each  other  over  the  faces  of  many  in  the  audience. 
His  peroration  was  one  of  great  beauty  and  power. 
I  have  heard  him  hundreds  of  times  since,  and  he 
has  never  failed  to  justify  his  claim  to  the  title  of 
"  the  old  man  eloquent." 

Harriet  Beecher  was  born  in  Litchfield,  about 
the  year  1812.  After  the  removal  of  the  family 
to  Boston,  she  enjoyed  the  best  educational  ad- 
vantages of  that  city.  With  the  view  of  prepar- 
ing herself  for  the  business  of  instruction,  she 
acquired  all  the  ordinary  accomplishments  of 
ladies,  and  much  of  the  learning  usually  reserved 
for  the  stronger  sex.  At  an  early  age  she  began 
to  aid  her  eldest  sister,  Catharine,  in  the  manage- 
ment of  a  flourishing  female  school,  which  had 
been  built  up  by  the  latter.  When  their  father 
went  West,  the  sisters  accompanied  him,  and 
opened  a  similar  establishment  in  Cincinnati. 

This  city  is  situated  on  the  northern  bank  of 
the  Ohio.  The  range  of  hills  which  hugs  the 


MRS.  BEECIIER  STOWE.          IT 

river  for  hundreds  of  miles  above,  here  recedes 
from  it  in  a  semi-circle,  broken  by  a  valley  and 
several  ravines,  leaving  a  basin  several  square 
miles  in  surface.  This  is  the  site  of  the  busy 
manufacturing  and  commercial  town  which,  in 
1832,  contained  less  than  forty  thousand  inhabi- 
tants, and  at  present  contains  more  than  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  thousand  —  a  rapid  increase, 
which  must  be  attributed,  in  a  great  measure,  to 
the  extensive  trade  it  carries  on  with  the  slave 
States.  The  high  hill,  whose  point,  now  crowned 
with  an  observatory,  overhangs  the  city  on  the 
east,  stretches  away  to  the  east  and  north  in  a 
long  sweep  of  table-land.  On  this  is  situated 
Lane  Seminary — Mrs.  Stowe's  home  for  eighteen 
long  years.  Near  the  Seminary  buildings,  and 
on  the  public  road,  are  certain  comfortable  brick 
residences,  situated  in  yards  green  with  tufted 
grass,  and  half  concealed  from  view  by  accacias, 
locusts,  rose-bushes,  and  vines  of  honeysuckle 
and  clematis.  These  were  occupied  by  Dr. 
Beecher,  and  the  Professors.  There  are  other 
residences  more  pretending  in  appearance,  occu- 
pied by  bankers,  merchants  and  men  of  fortune. 
The  little  village  thus  formed  is  called  Walnut 


18  ACCOUNT    OF 

Hills,  and  is  one  of  the  prettiest  in  the  environs 
of  Cincinnati. 

For  several  years  after  her  removal  to  this 
place,  Harriet  Beecher  continued  to  teach  in  con- 
nection with  her  sister.  She  did  so  until  her 
marriage  with  the  Rev.  Calvin  E.  Stowe,  Profes- 
sor of  Biblical  Literature  in  the  Seminary  of 
which  her  father  was  President.  This  gentleman 
was  already  one  of  the  most  distinguished  eccle- 
siastical savans  in  America.  After  graduating 
with  honour  at  Bowdoin  College,  Maine,  and 
taking  his  theological  degree  at  Andover,  he  had 
been  appointed  Professor,  at  Dartmouth  College, 
New  Hampshire,  whence  he  had  been  called  to 
Lane  Seminary.  Mrs.  Stowe's  married  life  has 
been  of  that  equable  and  sober  happiness  so  com- 
mon in  the  families  of  Yankee  clergymen.  It 
has  been  blessed  with  a  numerous  offspring,  of 
whom  five  are  still  living.  Mrs.  Stowe  has  known 
the  fatigues  of  watching  over  the  sick  bed,  and 
her  heart  has  felt  that  grief  which  eclipses  all 
others — that  of  a  bereaved  mother.  Much  of  her 
time  has  been  devoted  to  the  education  of  her 
children,  while  the  ordinary  household  cares  have 
devolved  on  a  frjend  or  distant  relative,  who  has 


MRS.  BEECHERSTOWE.          19 

always  resided  with  her.  She  employed  her 
leisure  in  contributing  occasional  pieces,  tales  and 
novelettes  to  the  magazines  and  newspapers.  Her 
writings  were  of  a  high  moral  tone,  and  deservedly 
popular.  Only  a  small  portion  of  them  are  com- 
prised in  the  volume — "  The  Mayflower'' — already 
mentioned.  This  part  of  Mrs.  Stowe's  life  spent 
in  literary  pleasures,  family  joys  and  cares,  and 
the  society  of  the  pious  and  intelligent,  would 
have  been  of  as  unalloyed  happiness  as  mortals 
can  expect,  had  it  not  been  darkened  at  every  in- 
stant by  the  baleful  shadow  of  slavery. 

The  "peculiar  institution"  was  destined  to 
thwart  the  grand  project  in  life  of  Mrs.  Stowe's 
husband  and  father.  When  they  relinquished 
their  excellent  positions  in  the  East  in  order  to 
build  up  the  great  Presbyterian  Seminary  for  the 
Ohio  and  Mississippi  valley,  they  did  so  with 
every  prospect  of  success.  Never  did  a  literary 
institution  start  under  finer  auspices.  The  num- 
ber and  reputation  of  the  professors  had  drawn 
together  several  hundred  students  from  all  parts 
of  the  United  States ;  not  sickly  cellar-plants  of 
boys  sent  by  wealthy  parents,  but  hardy  and  in- 
telligent young  men,  most  of  whom,  fired  by  the 


20  ACCOUNT  OF 

ambition  of  converting  the  world  to  Christ,  were 
winning  their  way  through  privations  and  toil,  to 
education  and  ministerial  orders.  They  were  the 
stuff  out  of  which  foreign  missionaries  and  revival 
preachers  are  made.  Some  of  them  were  known 
to  the  public  as  lecturers:  Theodore  D.  Weld 
*  was  an  oratorical  celebrity.  For  a  year  all  went 
well.  Lane  Seminary  was  the  pride  and  hope  of 
the  church.  Alas  for  the  hopes  of  Messrs. 
Beecher  and  Stowe !  this  prosperity  was  of  short 
duration. 

The  Drench  Revolution  of  1830,  the  agitation 
in  England  for  reform,  and  against  colonial  slavery, 
the  fine  and  imprisonment  by  American  courts  of 
justice,  of  citizens  who  had  dared  to  attack  the 
slave  trade  carried  on  under  the  federal  flag,  had 
begun  to  direct  the  attention  of  a  few  American 
philanthropists  to  the  evils  of  slavery.  Some 
years  before,  a  society  had  been  formed  for  the 
purpose  of  colonizing  free  blacks  on  the  coast  of 
Africa.  It  had  been  patronized  by  intelligent 
slaveholders,  who  feared  the  contact  of  free 
blacks  with  their  human  chattels ;  and  by  feeble 
or  ignorant  persons  in  the  North,  whose  con- 
sciences impelled  them  to  act  on  slavery  in  some 


MRS.  BEECHER  STOWE.         21 

way,  and  whose  prudence  or  ignorance  *of  the 
question  led  them  to  accept  the  plan  favoured  by 
slaveholders.  However  useful  to  Africa  the  emi- 
gration to  its  shores  of  intelligent,  moral,  and 
enterprising  blacks  may  be,  it  is  now  universally 
admitted  that  colonization,  as  a  means  of  extin- 
guishing slavery,  is  a  drivelling  absurdity.  These 
were  the  views  of  the  Abolition  Convention, 
which  met  at  Philadelphia  in  1833,  and  set  on 
foot  the  agitation  which  has  since  convulsed  the 
Union. 

The  President  of  that  Convention,  Mr.  Arthur 
Tappan,  was  one  of  the  most  liberal  donors  of 
Lane  Seminary.  He  forwarded  its  address  to  the 
students;  and  in  a  few  weeks  afterwards  the 
whole  subject  was  up  for  discussion  amongst  them. 
At  first  there  was  little  interest.  But  soon  the 
fire  began  to  burn.  Many  of  the  students  had 
travelled  or  taught  school  in  the  slave  States  ;  a 
goodly  number  were  sons  of  slaveholders,  and 
some  were  owners  of  slaves.  They  had  seen 
slavery,  and  had  facts  to  relate,  many  of  which 
made  the  blood  run  chill  with  horror.  Those 
spread  out  on  the  pages  of  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin," 
reader,  and  which  your  swelling  heart  and  over- 


22  ACCOUNTOF 

flowing  eyes  would  not  let  you  read  aloud,  are 
cold  in  comparison.  The  discussion  was  soon 
ended,  for  all  were  of  accord ;  but  the  meetings 
for  the  relation  of  facts  were  continued  night 
after  night  and  week  after  week.  What  was  at 
first  sensibility  grew  into  enthusiasm ;  the  feeble 
flame  had  become  a  conflagration.  The  slave 
owners  among  the  students  gave  liberty  to  their 
slaves;  the  idea  of  going  on  foreign  missions 
was  scouted  at,  because  there  were  heathens  at 
home ;  some  left  their  studies  and  collected  the 
coloured  population  of  Cincinnati  into  churches, 
and  preached  to  them  ;  others  gathered  the  young 
men  into  evening  schools,  and  the  children  into 
day  schools,  and  devoted  themselves  to  teaching 
them  ;  others  organized  benevolent  societies  for 
aiding  them,  and  orphan  asylums  for  the  desti- 
tute and  abandoned  children ;  and  others  again, 
left  all  to  aid  fugitive  slaves  on  their  way  to  Ca- 
nada, or  to  lecture  on  the  evils  of  slavery.  The 
fanatacism  was  sublime ;  every  student  felt  him- 
self a  Peter  the  hermit,  and  acted  as  if  the  aboli- 

• 

tion  of  slavery  depended  on  his  individual  ex- 
ertions. 

At  first  the  discussion  had  been  encouraged  by 


MRS.  BEECHER  STOWE.         23 

the  President  and  Professors;  but  when  they  saw 
it  swallowing  up  everything  like  regular  study, 
they  thought  it  high  time  to  stop.  It  was  too 
late ;  the  current  was  too  strong  to  be  arrested. 
The  commercial  interests  of  Cincinnati  took  the 
alarm — manufacturers  feared  the  loss  of  their 
Southern  trade.  Public  sentiment  exacted  the 
suppression  of  the  discussion  and  excitement. 
Slaveholders  came  over  from  Kentucky,  and  urged 
the  mob  on  to  violence.  For  several  weeks  there 
was  imminent  danger  that  Lane  Seminary,  and 
the  houses  of  Drs.  Beecher  and  Stowe,  would  be 
burnt  or  pulled  down  by  a  drunken  rabble.  These 
must  have  been  weeks  of  mortal  anxiety  for  Har- 
riet Beecher.  The  board  of  trustees  now  inter- 
fered, and  allayed  the  excitement  of  the  mob  by 
forbidding  all  further  discussion  of  slavery  in  the 
Seminary.  To  this  the  students  responded  by 
withdrawing  en  masse.  Where  hundreds  had 
been,  there  was  left  a  mere  handful.  Lane  Semi- 
nary was  deserted.  For  seventeen  years  after 
this,  Dr.  Beecher  and  Professor  Stowe  remained 
there,  endeavouring  in  vain  to  revive  its  prospe- 
rity. In  1850  they  returned  to  the  Eastern 
States,  the  great  project  of  their  life  defeated. 


24  ACCOUNT  OF 

After  a  short  stay  at  Bowdoin  College,  Maine, 
Professor  Stowe  accepted  an  appointment  to  the 
chair  of  Biblical  literature  in  the  Theological 
Seminary  at  Andover,  Massachusetts,  an  institu- 
tion which  stands,  to  say  the  least,  as  high  as  any 
in  the  United  States. 

These  events  caused  a  painful  reaction  in  the 
feelings  of  the  Beechers.  Repulsed  alike  by  the 
fanaticism  they  had  witnessed  among  the  foes, 
and  the  brutal  violence  among  the  friends  of  sla- 
very, they  thought  their  time  for  action  had  not 
come,  and  gave  no  public  expression  of  their  ab- 
horrence of  slavery.  They  waited  for  the  storm 
to  subside,  and  the  angel  of  truth  to  mirror  his 
form  in  tranquil  waters.  For  a  long  time  they 
resisted  all  attempts  to  make  them  bow  the  knee 
to  slavery,  or  to  avow  themselves  abolitionists. 
It  is  to  this  period  Mrs.  Stowe  alludes,  when  she 
says,  in  the  closing  chapter  of  her  book :  "  For 
many  years  of  her  life  the  author  avoided  all 
reading  upon,  or  allusion  to,  the  subject  of  sla- 
very, considering  it  as  too  painful  to  be  inquired 
into,  and  one  which  advancing  light  and  civiliza- 
tion would  live  down."  The  terrible  and  dramatic 
scenes  which  occurred  in  Cincinnati,  between  1835 


MRS.  BEECIIER  STOWE.          25 

and  1847,  were  calculated  to  increase  the  repug- 
nance of  a  lady  to  mingling  actively  in  the  melee. 
That  city  was  the  chief  battle-ground  of  freedom 
and  slavery.  Every  month  there  was  something 
to  attract  attention  to  the  strife ;  either  a  press 
destroyed,  or  a  -house  mobbed,  or  a  free  negro 
kidnapped,  or  a  trial  for  freedom  before  the 
courts,  or  the  confectionary  of  an  English  abo- 
litionist riddled,  or  a  public  discussion,  or  an 
escape  of  slaves,  or  an  armed  attack  on  the 
negro  quarter,  or  a  negro  school-house  razed  to 
the  ground,  or  a  slave  in  prison,  and  killing  his 
wife  and  children  to  prevent  their  being  sold  to 
the  .South.  The  abolition  press,  established  there 
in  1835  by  James  G.  Birney,  whom,  on  account 
of  his  mildness,  Miss  Martineau  called  "  the  gen- 
tleman of  the  abolition  cause,"  and  continued  by 
Dr.  Bailey,  the  moderate  and  able  editor  of  the 
National  Ura,  of  Washington  city,  in  which  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin  first  appeared  in  weekly  numbers, 
was  destroyed  five  times.  On  one  occasion,  the 
Mayor  dismissed  at  midnight  the  rioters,  who  had 
also  pulled  down  the  houses  of  some  colored  peo- 
ple, with  the  following  pithy  speech :  "  Well,  boys, 
let's  go  home ;  we've  done  enough."  One  of  these 
2 


26  ACCOUNT  OF 

mobs  deserves  particular  notice,  as  its  victims 
enlisted  deeply  the  sympathies  of  Mrs.  Stowe. 
In  1840,  the  slave  catchers,  backed  by  the  riff- 
raff of  the  population,  and  urged  on  by  certain 
politicians  and  merchants,  attacked  the  quarters 
in  which  the  negroes  reside.  Some  of  the  houses 
•were  battered  down  by  cannon.  For  several  days 
the  city  was  abandoned  to  violence  and  crime. 
The  negro  quarters  were  pillaged  and  sacked; 
negroes  who  attempted  to  defend  their  property 
were  killed,  and  their  mutilated  bodies  cast  into 
the  streets ;  women  were  violated  by  ruffians,  and 
some  afterwards  died  of  the  injuries  received ; 
houses  were  burnt,  and  men,  women,  and  children 
were  abducted  in  the  confusion,  and  hurried  into 
slavery.  From  the  brow  of  the  hill  on  which  she 
lived,  Mrs.  Stowe  could  hear  the  cries  of  the  vic- 
tims, the  shouts  of  the  mob,  and  the  reports  of 
the  guns  and  cannon,  and  could  see  the  flames  of 
the  conflagration.  To  more  than  one  of  the 
trembling  fugitives  she  gave  shelter,  and  wept 
bitter  tears  with  them.  After  the  fury  of  the. 
mob  was  spent,  many  of  the  coloured  people 
gathered  together  the  little  left  them  of  worldly 
goods,  and  started  for  Canada.  Hundreds  passed 


MRS.  BEECHER  STOWE.         27 

in  front  of  Mrs,  Stowe's  house.  Some  of  them 
were  in  little  wagons  ;  some  were  trudging  along 
on  foot  after  the  household  stuff ;  some  led  their 
children  by  the  hand ;  and  there  were  even  mo- 
thers who  walked  on,  suckling  their  infants,  and 
weeping  for  the  dead  or  kidnapped  husband  they 
had  left  behind. 

This  road,  which  ran  through  Walnut  Hills, 
and  within  a  few  feet  of  Mrs.  Stowe's  door,  was 
one  of  the  favourite  routes  of  "  the  under-ground 
railroad,"  so  often  alluded  to  in  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin.  This  name  was  given  to  a  line  of  Quakers 
and  other  abolitionists,  who,  living  at  intervals  of 
10,  15  or  20  miles  between  the  Ohio  river  and 
the  Northern  lakes,  had  formed  themselves  into  a 
sort  of  association  to  aid  fugitive  slaves  in  their 
escape  to  Canada.  Any  fugitive  was  taken  by 
night  on  horseback,  or  in  covered  wagons,  from 
station  to  station,  until  he  stood  on  free  soil,  and 
found  the  fold  of  the  lion  banner  floating  over 
him,  and  the  artillery  of  the  British  empire  be- 
tween him  and  slavery.  The  first  station  north 
of  Cincinnati  was  a  few  miles  up  Mill  Creek,  at 
the  house  of  the  pious  and  honest-hearted  John 
Vanzandt,  who  figures  in  chapter  nine  of  Uncle 


28  ACCOUNTOF 

Tom's  Cabin,  as  John  Van  Trompe.  Mrs.  Stowe 
must  have  often  been  roused  from  her  sleep  by 
the  quick  rattle  of  the  covered  wagons,  and  the 
confused  galloping  of  the  horses  of  constables 
and  slave-catchers  in  hot  pursuit.  "  Honest 
John"  was  always  ready  to  turn  out  with  his  team, 
and  the  hunters  of  men  were  not  often  adroit 
enough  to  come  up  with  him.  He  sleeps  now  in 
the  obscure  grave  of  a  martyr.  The  "  gigantic 
frame,"  of  which  the  novelist  speaks,  was  worn 
down  at  last  by  want  of  sleep,  exposure,  and 
anxiety;  and  his  spirits  were  depressed  by  the 
persecutions  which  were  accumulated  on  him. 
Several  slave  owners,  who  had  lost  their  -property 
by  his  means,  sued  him  in  the  United  States 
Courts  for  damages;  and  judgment  after  judg- 
ment stripped  him  of  his  farm,  and  all  his  property. 
During  her  long  residence  on  the  frontier  of 
the  slave  States,  Mrs.  Stowe  made  several  visits 
to  them.  It  was  then,  no  doubt,  she  made  the 
observations  which  have  enabled  her  to  paint  no- 
ble, generous,  and  humane  slaveholders,  in  the 
characters  of  Wilson,  the  manufacturer,  Mrs. 
Shelby  and  her  son  George,  St.  Clair  and  his 
daughter  Eva,  the  benevolent  purchaser  at  the 


MRS.  B EEC  HER  STOWE.          29 

New  Orleans  auction  sale,  the  mistress  of  Susan 
and  Emeline,  and  Symes,  who  helped  Eliza  and 
her  boy  up  tfie  river  bank.  Mrs.  Stowe  has  ob- 
served slavery  in  every  phase;  she  has  seen 
masters  and  slaves  at  home,  New  Orleans  markets, 
fugitives,  free  coloured  people,  pro-slavery  politi- 
cians and  priests,  abolitionists,  and  colonizationists. 
She  and  her  family  have  suffered  from  it;  seven- 
teen years  of  her  life  have  been  clouded  by  it. 
For  that  long  period  she  stifled  the  strongest  emo- 
tions of  her  heart.  No  one  but  her  intimate 
friends  knew  their  strength.  She  has  given  them 
expression  at  last.  Uncle  Toms  Cabin  is  the  ago- 
nizing cry  of  feelings  pent  up  for  years  in  the 
heart  of  a  true  woman. 


A    SKETCH. 

IT  may  be  gratifying  to  those  who  desire  to 
think  well  of  human  nature,  to  know  that  the  lead- 
ing incidents  of  the  subjoined  sketch  are  literal 
matters  of  fact,  occurring  in  the  city  of  Cincin- 
nati, which  have  come  within  the  scope  of  the 
writer's  personal  knowledge — the  incidents  have 
merely  been  clothed  in  a  dramatic  form,  to  present 
them  more  vividly  to  the  reader. 

In  one  of  the  hotel  parlors  of  our  queen  city,  a 
young  gentleman,  apparently  in  no  very  easy 
frame  of  mind,  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  room, 
looking  alternately  at  his  watch  and  out  of  the 
window,  as  if  expecting  somebody.  At  last  he 
rang  the  bell  violently,  and  a  hotel  servant  soon 
appeared. 

"  Has  my  man  Sam  come  in  yet  ?"  he  inquired. 

The  polished  yellow  gentleman  to  whom  this 
was  addressed,  answered  with  a  polite,  but  some- 

(30) 


UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION.    31 

•what  sinister  smirk,  that  nothing  had  been  seen 
of  him  since  early  that  morning. 

"  Lazy  dog !  full  three  hours  since  I  sent  him 

off  to  B street,  and  I  have  seen  nothing  of 

him  since." 

The  yellow  gentleman  remarked  with  consola- 
tory politeness,  that  "  he  hoped  Sam  had  not  run 
away"  adding,  with  an  ill-concealed  grin,  that 
"them  boys  was  mighty  apt  to  show  the  clean 
heel  when  they  come  into  a  free  State." 

"Oh,  no:  I'm  quite  easy  as  to  that,"  returned 
the  young  gentleman ;  "  I'll  risk  Sam's  ever  being 
willing  to  part  from  me.  I  brought  him  because 
I  was  sure  of  him." 

"  Don't  you  be  too  sure,''  remarked  a  gentleman 
from  behind,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  con- 
versation. "  There  are  plenty  of  mischief-making 
busybodies  on  the  trail  of  every  southern  gentle- 
man, to  interfere  with  his  family  matters,  and  de- 
coy off  his  servants." 

"  Didn't  I  see  Sam  talking  at  the  corner  with 
the  Quaker  Simmons  ?"  said  another  servant,  who 
meanwhile  had  entered. 

"Talking  with  Simmons,  was  he?"  remarked 
the  last  speaker,  with  irritation;  "that  rascal 


32    UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION. 

Simmons  does  nothing  else,  I  believe,  but  tote 
away  gentlemen's  servants.  Well,  if  Simmons 
has  got  him,  you  may  as  well  be  quiet ;  you'll  not 
see  your  fellow  again  in  a  hurry.'1 

"  And  who  the  deuce  is  this  Simmons  ?"  said 
our  young  gentleman,  who,  though  evidently  of  a 
good  natured  mould,  was  now  beginning  to  wax 
wroth ;  "  and  what  business  has  he  to  interfere 
with  other  vpeople's  affairs  ?" 

"  You  had  better  have  asked  those  questions  a 
few  days  ago,  and  then  you  would  have  kept  a 
closer  eye  on  your  fellow ;  a  meddlesome,  canting, 
Quaker  rascal,  that  all  these  black  hounds  run  to, 
to  be  helped  into  Canada,  and  nobody  knows 
where  all." 

The  young  gentleman  jerked  out  his  watch  with 
increasing  energy,  and  then  walking  fiercely  up 
to  the  coloured  waiter,  who  was  setting  the  dinner 
table  with  an  air  of  provoking  satisfaction,  he 
thundered  at  him,  "You  rascal,  you  understand 
this  matter ;  I  see  it  in  your  eyes." 

Our  gentleman  of  colour  bowed,  and  with  an 
air  of  mischievous  intelligence,  protested  that  he 
never  interfered  with  other  gentlemen's  matters, 
while  sundry  of  his  brethren  in  office  looked  un- 
utterable things  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes. 


UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION.    33 

"  There  is  some  cursed  plot  hatched  up  among 
you,"  said  the  young  man.  "You  have  talked 
Sam  into  it ;  I  know  he  never  would  have 
thought  of  leaving  me  unless  he  was  put  up  to  it. 
Tell  me  now,"  he  resumed,  "  have  you  heard  Sam 
say  anything  about  it  ?  Come,  be  reasonable,"  he 
added,  in  a  milder  tone,  "  you  shall  find  your  ac- 
count in  it." 

Thus  adjured,  the  waiter  protested  he  would  be 
happy  to  give  the  gentleman  any  satisfaction  in 
his  power.  The  fact  was,  Sam  had  been  pretty 
full  of  notions  lately,  and  had  been  to  see  Sim- 
mons, and  in  short,  he  should  not  wonder  if  he 
never  saw  any  more  of  him. 

And  as  hour  after  hour  passed,  the  whole  day, 
the  whole  night,  and  no  Sam  was  forthcoming,  the 
truth  of  the  surmise  became  increasingly  evident. 

Our  young  hero,  Mr.  Alfred  B ,  was  a  good 

deal  provoked,  and  strange  as  the  fact  may  seem, 
a  good  deal  grieved  too,  for  he  really  loved  the 
fellow.  "  Loved  him  !"  says  some  scornful  zealot ; 
"a  slaveholder  love  his  slave!"  Yes,  brother; 
why  not  ?  A  warm-hearted  man  will  love  his 
dog,  his  horse,  even  to  grieving  bitterly  for  their 
loss,  and  why  not  credit  the  fact  that  such  a  one 

2» 


34    UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION. 

may  love  the  human  creature  whom  custom  has 
placed  on  the  same  level.  The  fact  was,  Alfred 
B did  love  this  young  man ;  he  had  been  ap- 
propriated to  him  in  childhood ;  and  Alfred  had 
always  redressed  his  grievances,  fought  his  battles, 
got  him  out  of  scrapes,  and  purchased  for  him, 
with  liberal  hand,  indulgences  to  which  his  com- 
rades were  strangers.  He  had  taken  pride  to 
dress  him  smartly,  and  as  for  hardship  and  want, 
they  had  never  come  near  him. 

"  The  poor,  silly,  ungrateful  puppy !"  solilo- 
quized he,  "what  can  he  do  with  himself?  Con- 
found that  Quaker,  and  all  his  meddlesome  tribe — 
been  at  him  with  their  bloody -bone  stories,  I  sup- 
pose— Sam  knows  better,  the  scamp — halloa, 
there,"  he  called  to  one  of  the  waiters,  "  where 
does  this  Simpkins — Simon — Simmons,  or  what 
d'ye  call  him,  live?" 

"His  shop  is  No.  5,  on  G.  street." 

"  Well,  I'll  go  at  him,  and  see  what  business  he 
has  with  my  affairs." 

The  Quaker  was  sitting  at  the  door  of  his  shop, 
with  a  round,  rosy,  good-humoured  face,  so  ex- 
pressive of  placidity  and  satisfaction,  that  it  was 
difficult  to  approach  in  ireful  feeling. 


UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION.     35 

"Is  your  name  Simmons?"  demanded  Alfred, 
in  a  voice  whose  natural  urbanity  was  somewhat 
sharpened  by  vexation. 

"Yes,  friend;  what  dost  thou  wish?" 

"  I  wish  to  inquire  whether  you  have  seen  any- 
thing of  my  coloured  fellow,  Sam;  a  man  of 
twenty-five,  or  thereabouts,  lodging  at  the  Pearl 
street  House  ?" 

"  I  rather  suspect  that  I  have,"  said  the  Quaker, 
in  a  quiet,  meditative  tone,  as  if  thinking  the  mat- 
ter over  with  himself. 

"  And  is  it  true,  sir,  that  you,  have  encouraged 
and  assisted  him  in  his  efforts  to  get  out  of  my 
service  ?" 

"  Such,  truly,  is  the  fact,  my  friend." 

Losing  patience  at  this  provoking  equanimity, 
our  young  friend  poured  forth  his  sentiments 
with  no  inconsiderable  energy,  and  in  terms  not 
the  most  select  or  pacific,  all  which  our  Quaker 
received  with  that  placid,  full-orbed  tranquillity  of 
countenance,  which  seemed  to  say,  "Pray,  sir, re- 
lieve your  mind  ;  don't  be  particular,  scold  as  hard 
as  you  like.'5  The  singularity  of  this  expression 
struck  the  young  man,  and  as  his  wrath  became 
gradually  spent,  he  could  hardly  help  laughing  at 


36     UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION. 

the  tranquillity  of  his  opponent,  and  he  gradually 
changed  his  tone  for  one  of  expostulation.  "  What 
motive  could  induce  you,  sir,  thus  to  incommode  a 
stranger,  and  one  who  never  injured  you  at  all?" 

"  I  am  sorry  thou  art  incommoded,"  rejoined 
the  Quaker.  "Thy  servant,  as  thee  calls  him, 
came  to  me,  and  I  helped  him,  as  I  would  any 
other  poor  fellow  in  distress." 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  said  Alfred,  angrily ;  "  that's 
the  story  of  the  whole  of  you.  I  tell  you  there 
is  not  a  free  negro  in  your  city  so  well  off  as  my 
Sam  is,  and  always  has  been,  and  he'll  find  it  out 
before  long." 

"  But  tell  me,  friend,  thou  mayest  die  as  well  as 
another  man;  thy  establishment  may  fall  into 
debt,  as  well  as  another  man's  ;  and  thy  Sam  may 
be  sold  by  the  Sheriff  for  debt,  or  change  hands 
in  dividing  the  estate,  and  so,  though  he  was  bred 
easily,  and  well  cared  for,  he  may  come  to  be  a 
field  hand,  under  hard  masters,  starved,  beaten, 
overworked — such  things  do  happen  sometimes,  do 
they  not  ?" 

"  Sometimes,  perhaps  they  do,"  replied  the 
young  man. 

"  Well,  look  you,  by  our  laws  in  Ohio,  thy  Sam 


UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION.    37 

is  now  a  free  man  ;  as  free  as  I  or  thou ;  he  hath 
a  strong  back,  good  hands,  good  courage,  can  earn 
his  ten  or  twelve  dollars  a  month — or  do  better. 
Now  taking  all  things  into  account,  if  thee  were 
in  his  place,  what  would  thee  do — would  thee  go 
back  a  slave,  or  try  thy  luck  as  a  free  man  ?" 

Alfred  said  nothing  in  reply  to  this,  only  after 
a  while  he  murmured  half  to  himself,  "  I  thought 
the  fellow  had  more  gratitude,  after  all  my  kind- 
ness." * 

"  Thee  talks  of  gratitude,"  said  the  Quaker, 
"now  how  does  that  account  stand  ?  Thou  hast 
fed,  and  clothed,  and  protected  this  man  ;  thou 
hast  not  starved,  beaten,  or  abused  him — that 
would  have  been  unworthy  of  thee ;  thou  hast 
shown  him  special  kindness,  and  in  return  he  has 
given  thee  faithful  service  for  fifteen  or  twenty 
years  ;  all  his  time,  all  his  strength,  all  he  could 
do  or  be,  he  has  given  thee,  and  ye  are  about 
even."  The  young  man  looked  thoughtful,  but 
made  no  reply. 

"  Sir,"  said  he  at  last,  "  I  will  take  no  unfair 
advantage  of  you ;  I  wish  to  get  my  servant  once 
more  ;  can  I  do  so  ?" 

"  Certainly.     I  will  bring  him  to  thy  lodgings 


38      UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION. 

this  evening,  if  thee  wish  it.  I  know  thee  will  do 
what  is  fair,"  said  the  Quaker. 

It  were  difficult  to  define  the  thoughts  of  the 
young  man,  as  he  returned  to  his  lodgings.  Natu- 
rally generous  and  humane,  he  had  never  dreamed 
that  he  had  rendered  injustice  to  the  human  be- 
ings he  claimed  as  his  own.  Injustice  and  oppres- 
sion he  had  sometimes  seen  with  detestation,  in 
other  establishments ;  but  it  had  been  his  pride 
that  they  were  excluded  from  his  own.  It  had 
been  his  pride  to  think  that  his  indulgence  and 
liberality  made  a  situation  of  dependence  on  him 
preferable  even  to  liberty. 

The  dark  picture  of  possible  reverses  which  the 
slave  system  hangs  over  the  lot  of  the  most  fa- 
voured slaves,  never  occurred  to  him.  Accord- 
ingly, at  six  o'clock  that  evening,  a  light  tap  at 
the  door  of  Mr.  B.'s  parlor,  announced  the  Quaker, 
and  hanging  back  behind  him,  the  reluctant  Sam, 
who,  with  all  his  newly-acquired  love  of  liberty, 
felt  almost  as  if  he  were  treating  his  old  master 
rather  shabbily,  in  deserting  him. 

"  So,  Sam,"  said  Alfred,  "  how  is  this  ?  they 
say  you  want  to  leave  me." 

"  Yes,  master." 


UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION.     39 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Sam  ?  haven't  I  al- 
ways been  good  to  you ;  and  has  not  my  father 
always  been  gooa  to  you?" 

"  Oh  yes,  master ;  very  good." 

"Have  you  not  always  had  good  food,  good 
clothes,  and  lived  easy  ?" 

"Yes,  master." 

"  And  nobody  has  ever  abused  you  ?" 

"No,  master." 

"  Well,  then,  why  do  you  wish  to  leave  me  ?" 

"Oh,  massa,  I  want  to  be  a  free  man." 

"Why,  Sam,  ain't  you  well  enough  off  now?" 

"  Oh,  massa  may  die  ;  then  nobody  knows  who 
get  me ;  some  dreadful  folks,  you  know,  master, 
might  get  me,  as  they  did  Jim  Sanford,  and  no- 
body to  take  my  part.  No,  master,  I  rather  be 
free  man." 

Alfred  turned  to  the  window,  and  thought  a  few 
moments,  and  then  said,  turning  about,  "Well, 
Sam,  I  believe  you  are  right.  I  think,  on  the 
whole,  I'd  like  best  to  be  a  free  man  myself,  and  I 
must  not  wonder  that  you  do.  So,  for  ought  I 
see,  you  must  go ;  but  then,  Sam,  there's  your 
wife  and  child."  Sam's  countenance  fell. 

"Never  mind,  Sam.  I  will  send  them  up  to 
you." 


40    UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION. 

"Oh,  master!" 

"  I  will ;  ut  you  must  remember  now,  Sam, 
you  have  got  both  yourself  and  them  to  take  care 
of,  and  have  no  master  to  look  after  you ;  be 
steady,  sober,  and  industrious,  and  then  if  ever 
you  get  into  distress,  send  word  to  me,  and  I'll 
help  you."  Lest  any  accuse  us  of  over-colouring 
our  story,  we  will  close  it  by  extracting  a  passage 
or  two  from  the  letter  which  the  generous  young 
man  the  next  day  left  in  the  hands  of  the  Quaker, 
for  his  emancipated  servant.  We  can  assure  our 
readers  that  we  copy  from  the  original  document, 
which  now  lies  before  us  : 

DEAR  SAM — I  am  just  on  the  eve  of  my  de- 
parture for  Pittsburg ;  I  may  not  see  you  again 
for  a  long  time,  possibly  never,  and  I  leave  this 
letter  with  your  friends,  Messrs.  A.  and  B.,  for 
you,  and  herewith  bid  you  an  affectionate  fare- 
well. Let  me  give  you  some  advice,  which  is, 
now  that  you  are  a  free  man,  in  a  free  State,  be 
obedient  as  you  were  when  a  slave ;  perform  all 
the  duties  that  are  required  of  you,  and  do  all 
you  can  for  your  own  future  welfare  and  respecta- 
bility. Let  me  assure  you  that  I  have  the  same 


UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION.    41 

good  feeling  towards  you  that  you  know  I  always 
had ;  and  let  me  tell  you  further,  that  if  ever  you 
want  a  friend,  call  or  write  to  me,  and  I  will  be 
that  friend.  Should  you  be  sick,  and  not  able  to 
work,  and  want  money  to  a  small  amount  at  dif- 
ferent times,  write  to  me,  and  I  will  always  let  you 
have  it.  I  have  not  with  me  at  present  much 
money,  though  I  will  leave  with  my  agent  here, 
the  Messrs.  W.,  five  dollars  for  you ;  you  must 
give  them  a  receipt  for  it.  On  my  return  from 
Pittsburg,  I  will  call  and  see  you  if  I  have  time ; 
fail  not  to  write  to  my  father,  for  he  made  you  a 
good  master,  and  you  should  always  treat  him 
with  respect,  and  cherish  his  memory  so  long  as 
you  liye.  Be  good,  industrious,  and  honourable, 
and  if  unfortunate  in  your  undertakings,  never 
forget  that  you  have  a  friend  in  me.  Farewell, 
and  believe  me  your  affectionate  young  master 
and  friend.  ALFRED  B . 

That  dispositions  as  ingenuous  and  noble  as  that 
of  this  young  man,  are  commonly  to  be  found 
either  in  slave  States  or  free,  is  more  than  we  dare 
to  assert.  But  when  we  see  such  found,  even 
among  those  who  are  born  and  bred  slaveholders, 


42     UNCLE  SAM'S  EMANCIPATION. 

we  cannot  but  feel  that  there  is  encouragement 
for  a  fair,  and  mild,  and  brotherly  presentation 
of  truth,  and  every  reason  to  lament  hasty  and 
wholesale  denunciations.  The  great  error  of  con- 
troversy is,  that  it  is  ever  ready  to  assail  persons 
rather  than  principles.  The  slave  system,  as  a 
system,  perhaps  concentrates  more  wrong  than 
any  other  now  existing,  and  yet  those  who  live 
under  and  in  it  may  be,  as  we  see,  enlightened, 
generous,  and  amenable  to  reason.  If  the  sys- 
tem alone  is  attacked,  such  minds  will  be  the  first 
to  perceive  its  evils,  and  to  turn  against  it ;  but 
if  the  system  be  attacked  through  individuals, 
self-love,  wounded  pride,  and  a  thousand  natural 
feelings,  will  be  at  once  enlisted  for  its  preserva- 
tion. We  therefore  subjoin  it  as  the  moral  of  our 
story,  that  a  man  who  has  had  the  misfortune  to 
be  born  and  bred  a  slaveholder,  may  be  enlight- 
ened, generous,  humane,  and  capable  of  the  most 
disinterested  regard  to  the  welfare  of  his  slave. 


(Pun,  n  Jhwttlt);  Bisriplitu, 


NOTHING  is  more  frequently  felt  and  spoken 
of  as  a  hindrance  to  the  inward  life  of  devotion, 
than  the  "  cares  of  life;"  and  even  upon  the 
showing  of  our  Lord  himself,  the  cares  of  the 
world  are  the  thorns  that  choke  the  word,  and 
render  it  unfruitful. 

And  yet,  if  this  is  a  necessary  and  inevitable 
result  of  worldly  cares,  why  does  the  providence 
of  God  so  order  things  that  they  form  so  large 
and  unavoidable  a  part  of  every  human  experi- 
ence ?  Why  is  the  physical  system  of  man  framed 
with  such  daily,  oft-returning  wants  ?  Why  has 
God  arranged  an  outward  system,  which  is  a  con- 
stant diversion  from  the  inward  —  a  weight  on  its 
wheels  —  a  burden  on  its  wings  —  and  then  com- 
manded a  strict  and  rigid  inwardness  and  spiritu- 
ality ?  Why  has  he  placed  us  where  the  things 
that  are  seen  and  temporal  must  unavoidably  have 
so  much  of  our  thoughts,  and  time,  and  care,  and 
yet  told  us,  "  Set  your  affections  on  things  above, 

(43) 


44  EARTHLY   CARE. 

and  not  on  things  on  the  earth;"  "Love  not  the 
world,  neither  the  things  in  the  world?"  And 
why  does  one  of  our  brightest  examples  of  Chris- 
tian experience,  as  it  should  be,  say,  "  While  we 
look  not  at  the  things  which  are  seen,  but  at  the 
things  which  are  not  seen :  for  the  things  which 
are  seen  are  temporal,  but  the  things  which  are 
not  seen  are  eternal  ?" 

The  Bible  tells  us  that  our  whole  existence  here 
is  disciplinary  ;  that  this  whole  physical  system, 
by  which  our  spirit  is  connected  with  all  the  joys 
and  sorrows,  hopes,  and  fears,  and  wants  which 
form  a  part  of  it,  is  designed  as  an  education  to 
fit  the  soul  for  its  immortality.  Hence,  as  worldly 
care  forms  the  greater  part  of  the  staple  of  every 
human  life,  there  must  be  some  mode  of  viewing 
and  meeting  it,  which  converts  it  from  an  enemy 
of  spirituality  into  a  means  of  grace  and  spiritual 
advancement. 

Why,  then,  do  we  so  often  hear  the  lamenta- 
tion, "  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  could  advance  to 
the  higher  stages  of  Christian  life,  if  it  were  not 
for  the  pressure  of  my  business,  and  the  multitude 
of  my  worldly  cares  ?"•  Is  it  not  God,  0  Chris- 
tian !  who,  in  his  providence,  has  laid  these  cares 


EARTHLY   CARE,  45 

upon  thee,  and  who  still  holds  them  about  thee, 
and  permits  no  escape  from  them?  If  God's 
great  undivided  object  is  thy  spiritual  improve- 
ment, is  there  not  some  misapprehension  or  wrong 
use  of  these  cares,  if  they  do  not  tend  to  advance 
it  ?  Is  it  not  even  as  if  a  scholar  should  say,  I 
could  advance  in  science  were  it  not  for  all  the 
time  and  care  which  lessons,  and  books,  and  lec- 
tures require  ? 

How,  then,  shall  earthly  care  become  heavenly 
discipline?  How  shall  the  disposition  of  the 
weight  be  altered  so  as  to  press  the  spirit  upward 
towards  God,  instead  of  downward  and  away? 
How  shall  the  pillar  of  cloud  which  rises  between 
us  and  Him,  become  one  of  fire,  to  reflect  upon 
us  constantly  the  light  of  his  countenance,  and  to 
guide  us  over  the  sands  of  life's  desert  ? 

It  appears  to  us  that  the  great  radical  difficulty 
lies  in  a  wrong  belief.  There  is  not  a  genuine 
and  real  belief  of  the  presence  and  agency  of  God 
in  the  minor  events  and  details  of  life,  which  is 
necessary  to  change  them  from  secular  cares  into 
spiritual  blessings. 

It  is  true  there  is  much  loose  talk  about  an 
overruling  Providence ;  and  yet,  if  fairly  stated, 


46  EAKTHLY   CARE. 

the  belief  of  a  great  many  Christians  might  be 
thus  expressed:  God  has  organized  and  set  in 
operation  certain  general  laws  of  matter  and  mind, 
which  work  out  the  particular  results  of  life,  and 
over  these  laws  he  exercises  a  general  supervision 
and  care,  so  that  all  the  great  affairs  of  the  world 
are  carried  on  after  the  counsel  of  his  own  will : 
and,  in  a  certain  general  sense,  all  things  are 
working  together  for  good  to  those  that  love  God. 
But  when  some  simple-minded  and  child-like 
Christian  really  proceeds  to  refer  all  the  smaller 
events  of  life  to  God's  immediate  care  and  agency, 
there  is  a  smile  of  incredulity — and  it  is  thought 
that  the  good  brother  displays  more  Christian 
feeling  than  sound  philosophy. 

But  as  the  life  of  every  individual  is  made  up 
of  fractions  and  minute  atoms — as  those  things, 
which  go  to  affect  habits  and  character,  are  small 
and  hourly  recurring,  it  comes  to  pass,  that  a 
belief  in  Providence  so  very  wide  and  general  is 
altogether  inefficient  for  consecrating  and  render- 
ing sacred  the  great  body  of  what  comes  in  con- 
tact with  the  mind  in  the  experience  of  life. 
Only  once  in  years  does  the  Christian,  with  this 
kind  of  belief,  hear  the  voice  of  the  Lord  speak- 


EARTHLY   CAKE.  47 

ing  to  him.  When  the  hand  of  death  is  laid  on 
his  child,  or  the  bolt  strikes  down  the  brother  by 
his  side ;  then,  indeed,  he  feels  that^God  is  draw- 
ing near ;  he  listens  humbly  for  the  inward  voice 
that  shall  explain  the  meaning  and  need  of  this 
discipline.  When,  by  some  unforeseen  occur- 
rence, the  whole  of  his  earthly  property  is  swept 
away,  and  he  becomes  a  poor  man,  this  event,  in 
his  eyes,  assumes  sufficient  magnitude  to  have 
come  from  God,  and  to  have  a  design  and  mean- 
ing; but  when  smaller  comforts  are  removed, 
smaller  losses  are  encountered,  and  the  petty 
every- day  vexations  and  annoyances  of  life  press 
about  him,  he  recognises  no  God,  and  hears  no 
voice,  and  sees  no  design.  Hence  John  Newton 
says,  "Many  Christians,  who  bear  the  loss  of 
a  child  or  the  destruction  of  all  their  property 
with  the  most  heroic  Christian  fortitude,  are  en- 
tirely vanquished  and  overcome  by  the  breaking 
of  .a  dish,  or  the  blunders  of  a  servant,  and  show 
so  unchristian  a  spirit,  that  we  cannot  but  wonder 
at  them." 

So  when  the  breath  of  slander,  or  the  pressure 
of  human  injustice,  comes  so  heavily  on  a  man, 
as  really  to  threaten  loss  of  character,  and  de- 


48  EARTHLY   CAEE. 

struction  of  his  temporal  interests,  he  seems 
forced  to  recognise  the  hand  and  voice  of  God 
through  the  veil  of  human  agencies,  and  in  time- 
honoured  words  to  say — 

When  men  of  spite  against  me  join, 
They  are  the  swofd,  the  hand  is  thine. 

But  the  smaller  injustice,  and  fault-finding,  which 
meets  every  one  more  or  less  in  the  daily  inter- 
course of  life — the  overheard  remark — the  implied 
censure — too  petty  perhaps  to  be  even  spoken  of — 
these  daily-recurring  sources  of  disquietude  and 
unhappiness  are  not  referred  to  God's  providence, 
nor  considered  as  a  part  of  his  probation  and  dis- 
cipline. Those  thousand  vexations  which  come 
upon  us  through  the  unreasonableness,  the  care- 
lessness, the  various  constitutional  failings  or  ill 
adaptedness  of  others  to  our  peculiarities  of  cha- 
racter, from  a  very  large  item  of  the  disquietudes 
of  life,  and  yet  how  very  few  look  beyond  the 
human  agent,  and  feel  that  these  are  trials  com- 
ing from  God.  Yet  it  is  true,  in  many  cases,  that 
these  so-called  minor  vexations  form  the  greater 
part,  and,  in  some  cases,  the  only  discipline  of 
life ;  and  to  those  who  do  not  view  them  as  indi- 


EARTHLY   CARE.  49 

vidually  ordered  or  permitted  by  God,  and  com- 
ing upon  them  by  design,  their  affliction  really 
fi  cometh  of  the  dust,"  and  their  trouble  springs 
"  out  of  the  ground ;"  it  is  sanctified  and  relieved 
by  no  Divine  presence  and  aid,  but  borne  alone, 
and  in  a  mere  human  spirit,  and  by  mere  human 
reliances ;  it  acts  on  the  mind  as  a  constant  diver- 
sion and  hindrance,  instead  of  moral  discipline. 

Hence,  too,  arises  a  coldness,  and  generality, 
and  wandering  of  mind  in  prayer.  The  things 
that  are  on  the  heart,  that  are  distracting  the 
mind,  that  have  filled  the  heart  so  full  that  there 
is  no  room  for  anything  else,  are  all  considered 
too  small  and  undignified  to  come  within  the  pale 
of  a  prayer :  and  so,  with  a  wandering  mind  and  a 
distracted  heart,  the  Christian  offers  up  his  prayer 
for  things  which  he  thinks  he  ought  to  want,  and 
makes  no  mention  of  those  which  he  really  does 
want.  He  prays  that  God  would  pour  out  his 
Spirit  on  the  heathen,  and  convert  the  world,  and 
build  up  his  kingdom  everywhere,  when  perhaps 
a  whole  set  of  little  anxieties  and  wants  and  vex- 
ations are  so  distracting  his  thoughts,  that  he 
hardly  knows  what  he  has  been  saying.  A  faith- 
less servant  is  wasting  his  property,  a  careless  or 


50  EARTHLY  CARE. 

blundering  workman  has  spoiled  a  lot  of  goods,  a 
child  is  vexatious  or  unruly,  a  friend  has  made 
promises  and  failed  to  keep  them,  an  acquaintance 
has  made  unjust  or  satirical  remarks,  some  new 
furniture  has  been  damaged  or  ruined  by  careless- 
ness in  the  household ;  but  all  this  trouble  forms 
no  subject  matter  for  prayer,  though  there  it  is 
all  the  while  lying  like  lead  on  the  heart,  and 
keeping  it  down  so  that  it  has  no  power  to  expand 
and  take  in  anything  else.  ,  But  were  God  in 
Christ  known  and  regarded  as  the  soul's  familiar 
Friend;  were  every  trouble  of  the  heart,  as  it 
rises,  breathed  into  His  bosom ;  were  it  felt  that 
there  is  not  one  of  the  smallest  of  life's  troubles 
that  has  not  been  permitted  by  Him,  and  per- 
mitted for  specific  good  purpose  to  the  soul,  how 
much  more  heart-work  would  there  be  in  prayer ; 
how  constant,  how  daily  might  it  become,  how  it 
might  settle  and  clear  the  atmosphere  of  the  soul, 
how  it  might  so  dispose  and  lay  away  many  anx- 
ieties which  now  take  up  their  place  there,  that 
there  might  be  room  for  the  higher  themes  and 
considerations  of  religion  !] 

Many  sensitive  and  fastidious  natures  are  worn 
away  by  the  constant  friction  of  what  are  called 


EARTHLY   CARE.  51 

little  troubles.  Without  any  great  affliction,  they 
feel  that  all  the  flower  and  sweetness  of  their  life 
is  faded;  their  eye  grows  dim,  their  cheek  care- 
worn, and  their  spirit  loses  hope  and  elasticity, 
and  becomes  bowed  with  premature  age ;  and  in 
the  midst  of  tangible  and  physical  comfort,  they 
are  restless  and  unhappy.  The  constant  under- 
current of  little  cares  and  vexations,  which  is 
slowly  wearing  out  the  finer  springs  of  life,  is  seen 
by  no  one ;  scarcely  ever  do  they  speak  of  these 
things  to  their  nearest  friends.  Yet  were  there 
a  friend,  of  a  spirit  so  discerning  as  to  feel  and 
sympathize  in  all  these  things,  how  much  of  this 
repressed  electric  restlessness  would  pass  off 
through  such  a  sympathizing  mind. 

Yet  among  human  friends  this  is  all  but  impos- 
sible, for  minds  are  so  diverse  that  what  is  a  trial 
and  a  care  to  one,  is  a  matter  of  sport  and  amuse- 
ment to  another,  and  all  the  inner  world  breathed 
into  a  human  ear,  only  excites  a  surprised  or  con- 
temptuous pity.  To  whom  then  shall  the  soul 
turn — who  will  feel  that  to  be  affliction,  which 
each  spirit  knows  to  be  so  ?  If  the  soul  shut 
itself  within  itself,  it  becomes  morbid;  the  fine 
chords  of  the  mind  and  nerves,  by  constant  wear, 


52  EARTHLY   CARE. 

X 

become  jarring  and  discordant :  hence  fretfulness, 
discontent,  and  habitual  irritability  steal  over  the 
sincere  Christian. 

But  to  the  Christian  who  really  believes  in  the 
agency  of  God  in  the  smallest  events  of  life,  con- 
fides in  his  love  and  makes  his  sympathy  his 
refuge,  the  thousand  minute  cares  and  perplexities 
of  life  become  each  one  a  fine  affiliating  bond 
between  the  soul  and  its  God.  Christ  is  known, 
not  by  abstract  definition,  and  by  high-raised 
conceptions  of  the  soul's  aspiring  hours,  but 
known  as  a  man  knoweth  his  friend  ;  he  is  known 
by  the  hourly  wants  he  supplies — known  by  every 
care  with  which  he  momentarily  sympathises, 
every  apprehension  which  relieves,  every  tempta- 
tion which  he  enables  us  to  surmount.  We  learn 
to  know  Christ  as  the  infant  child  learns  to  know 
its  mother  and  father,  by  all  the  helplessness  and 
all  the  dependence  which  are  incident  to  this 
commencement  of  our  moral  existence ;  and  as  we 
go  on  thus  year  by  year,  and  find  in  every  chang- 
ing situation,  in  every  reverse,  in  every  trouble, 
from  the  lightest  sorrow  to  those  which  wring  our 
soul  from  its  depths,  that  he  is  equally  present, 
and  that  his  gracious  aid  is  equally  adequate,  our 


EARTHLY   CARE.  53 

faith  seems  gradually  almost  to  change  to  sight, 
and  Christ's  sympathy,  his  love  and  care,  seem  to 
us  more  real  than  any  other  source  of  reliance ; 
and  multiplied  cares  and  trials  are  only  new  ave- 
nues of  acquaintance  between  us  and  Heaven. 

Suppose,  in  some  bright  vision  unfolding  to  our 
view,  in  tranquil  evening  or  solemn  midnight,  the 
glorified  form  of  some  departed  friend  should 
appear  to  us  with  the  announcement,  "  This  year 
is  to  be  to  you  one  of  special  probation  and  disci- 
pline, with  reference  to  perfecting  you  for  a  hea- 
venly state.  Weigh  well  and  consider  every  inci- 
dent of  your  daily  life,  for  not  one  is  to  fall  out 
by  accident,  but  each  one  shall  be  a  finished  and 
indispensable  link  in  a  bright  chain  that  is  to  draw 
you  upward  to  the  skies." 

With  what  new  eyes  should  we  now  look  on  our 
daily  lot !  and  if  we  found  in  it  not  a  single 
change — the  same  old  cares,  the  same  perplexities, 
the  same  uninteresting  drudgeries  still — with  what 
new  meaning  would  every  incident  be  invested, 
and  with  what  other  and  sublimer  spirit  could  we 
meet  them!  Yet,  if  announced  by  one  rising 
from  the  dead  with  the  visible  glory  of  a  spiritual 
world,  this  truth  could  be  asserted  no  more  clearly 


54  EARTHLY  CARE. 

and  distinctly-  than  Jesus  Christ  has  stated  it 
already.  Not  a  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground 
without  our  Father — not  one  of  them  is  forgotten 
by  him ;  and  we  are  of  more  value  than  many 
sparrows — yea,  even  the  hairs  of  our  head  are  all 
numbered.  Not  till  belief  in  these  declarations, 
in  their  most  literal  sense,  becomes  the  calm  and 
settled  habit  of  the  soul,  is  life  ever  redeemed 
from  drudgery  and  dreary  emptiness,  and  made 
full  of  interest,  meaning,  and  Divine  significance. 
Not  till  then  do  its  grovelling  wants,  its  wearing 
cares,  its  stinging  vexations,  become  to  us  minis- 
tering spirits — each  one,  by  a  silent  but  certain 
agency,  fitting  us  for  a  higher  and  perfect  sphere. 


EARTHLY   CARE.  55 


HYMN. 

NEARER,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee ! 

E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 
That  raiseth  me"; 

Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee ! 

Though  like  a  wanderer, 

The  sun  gone  down, 

Darkness  comes  over  me, 
My  rest  a  stone, 

Yet  in  my  dreams  I'd  be 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, — 
Nearer  to  Thee ! 

There  let  my  way  appear 

Steps  unto  heav'n ; 

All  that  Thou  sendest  me 
In  mercy  giv'n ; 

Angels  to  beckon  me 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, — 
Nearer  to  Thee ! 


Irjinlnr'a  Sltottttra  in  tjp 


"1$  we  could  only  live  in  the  country,"  said  my 
wife,  "Low  much  easier  it  would  be  to  lire.'' 

"And  how  much  cheaper  I7'  said  I. 

"  To  have  a  little  place  of  our  own,  and  raise 
our  own  things  !"  said  my  wife  :  "  dear  me  !  I  am 
heart-sick  when  I  think  of  the  old  place  at  home, 
and  father's  great  garden.  What  peaches  and 
melons  we  used  to  have  —  what  green  peas  and 
corn  !  Now  one  has  to  buy  every  cent's  worth  of 
these  things  —  and  how  they  taste  !  Such  wilted, 
miserable  corn  !  Such  peas  !  Then,  if  we  lived 
in  the  country,  we  should  have  our  own  cow,  and 
milk  and  cream  in  abundance  —  our  own  hens  and 
chickens.  We  could  have  custard  and  ice  cream 
every  day  !" 

"  To  say  nothing  of  the  trees  and  flowers,  and 
all  that,"  said  I. 

The  result  of  this  little  domestic  duet  was 
that  my  wife  and  I  began  to  ride  about  the  city  of 
-  -  to  look  up  some  pretty  interesting  cottage 

(56) 


A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTU  RES.      57 

where  our  visions  of  rural  bliss  might  be  realized. 
Country  residences  near  the  city  we  found  to 
bear  rather  a  high  price ;  so  that  it  was  no  easy 
matter  to  find  a  situation  suitable  to  the  length  of 
our  purse ;  till,  at  last,  a  judicious  friend  suggested 
a  happy  expedient — 

"Borrow  a  few  hundred,"  he  said,  "and  give 
your  note — you  can  save  enough  very  soon,  to 
make  the  difference.  When  you  raise  everything 
you  eat,  you  know  it  will  make  your  salary  -go  a 
wonderful  deal  further." 

"  Certainly  it  will,"  said  I.  "  And  what  can  be 
more  beautiful  than  to  buy  places  by  the  simple 
process  of  giving  one's  note — 'tis  so  neat,  and 
handy,  and  convenient !" 

"  Why,"  pursued  my  friend,  "  there  is  Mr.  B., 
my  next  door  neighbour — 'tis  enough  to  make  one 
sick  of  life  in  the  city  to  spend  a  week  out  on  his 
farm.  Such  princely  living  as  one  gets ;  and  he 
assures  me  that  it  costs  him  very  little — scarce 
anything,  perceptible,  in  fact !" 

"  Indeed,"  said  I,  "  few  people  can  say  that." 

"  Why,"  said  my  friend,  "  he  has  a  couple  of 
peach  trees  for  every  month,  from  June  till  frost, 
that  furnish  as  many  peaches  as  he  and  his  wife 
3* 


58     A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES. 

and  ten  children  can  dispose  of.  And  then  he  has 
grapes,  apricots,  &c. ;  and  last  year  his  wife  sold 
fifty  dollars 'worth  from  her  strawberry  patch,  and 
had  an  abundance  for  the  table  besides.  Out  of 
the  milk  of  only  one  cow  they  had  butter  enough 
to  sell  three  or  four  pounds  a  week,  besides  abund- 
ance of  milk  and  cream ;  and  madam  has  the  but- 
ter for  her  pocket  money.  This  is  the  way  coun- 
try people  manage.'7 

"  Glorious  !"  thought  I.  And  my  wife  and  I 
could  scarce  sleep  all  night,  for  the  brilliancy  of 
our  anticipations ! 

To  be  sure  our  delight  was  somewhat  damped 
the  next  day  by  the  coldness  with  which  my  good 
old  uncle,  Jeremiah  Standfast,  who  happened 
along  at  precisely  this  crisis,  listened  to  our 
visions. 

"  You'll  find  it  pleasant,  children,  in  the  sum- 
mer-time," said  the  hard-fisted  old  man,  twirling 
his  blue  checked  pocket  handkerchief;  "but  I'm 
sorry  you've  gone  in  debt  for  the  land." 

"  Oh  !  but  we  shall  soon  save  that — it's  so  much 
cheaper  living  in  the  country!"  said  both  of  us 
together. 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  I  don't  think  it  is  to  city- 
bred  folks." 


A  S  CHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES.      59 

Here  I  broke  in  with  a  flood  of  accounts  of 
Mr.  B.'s  peach  trees,  and  Mrs.  B.'s  strawberries, 
butter,  apricots,  &c.,  &c. ;  to  which  the  old  gentle- 
man listened  with  such  a  long,  leathery,  unmoved 
quietude  of  visage  as  quite  provoked  me,  and  gave 
me  the  worst  possible  opinion  of  his  judgment.  I 
was  disappointed  too ;  for,  as  he  was  reckoned  one 
of  the  best  practical  farmers  in  the  county,  I  had 
counted  on  an  enthusiastic  sympathy  with  all  my 
agricultural  designs. 

"I  tell  you  what,  children,"  he  said,  "a  body 
can  live  in  the  country,  as  you  say,  amazin'  cheap ; 
but,  then,  a  body  must  know  how" — and  my  uncle 
spread  his  pocket  handkerchief  thoughtfully  out 
upon  his  knees,  and  shook  his  head  gravely. 

I  thought  him  a  terribly  slow,  stupid  old  body, 
and  wondered  how  I  had  always  entertained  so 
high  an  opinion  of  his  sense. 

"  He  is  evidently  getting  old !"  said  I  to  my 
wife;  "his  judgment  is  not  what  it  used  to  be." 

At  all  events,  our  place  was  bought,  and  we 
moved  out,  well  pleased,  the  first  morning  in 
April,  not  at  all  remembering  the  ill  savor  of  that 
day  for  matters  of  wisdom.  Our  place  was  a 
pretty  cottage,  about  two  miles  from  the  city,  with 


60     A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES. 

grounds  that  have  been  tastefully  laid  out.  There 
was  no  lack  of  winding  paths,  arbors,  flower  bor- 
ders, and  rose-bushes,  with  which  my  wife  was 
especially  pleased.  There  was  a  little  green  lot, 
strolling  off  down  to  a  brook,  with  a  thick  grove 
of  trees  at  the  end,  where  our  cow  was  to  be 
pastured. 

The  first  week  or  two  went  on  happily  enough 
in  getting  our  little  new  pet  of  a  house  into  trim- 
ness  and  good  order ;  for,  as  it  had  been  long  for 
sale,  of  course  there  was  any  amount  of  little  re- 
pairs that  had  been  left  to  amuse  the  leisure 
hours  of  the  purchaser.  Here  a  door-step  had 
given  way,  and  needed  replacing ;  there  a  shutter 
hung  loose,  and  wanted  a  hinge ;  abundance  of 
glass  needed  setting ;  and,  as  to  the  painting  and 
papering,  there  was  no  end  to  that ;  then  my  wife 
wanted  a  door  cut  here,  to  make  our  bed-room 
more  convenient,  and  a  china  closet  knocked  up 
there,  where  no  china  closet  before  had  been. 
We  even  ventured  on  throwing  out  a  bay  window 
from  our  sitting-room,  because  we  had  luckily 
lighted  on  a  workman  who  was  so  cheap  that  it 
was  an  actual  saving  of  money  to  employ  him. 
And  to  be  sure  our  darling  little  cottage  did  lift 


A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES.     61 

up  its  head  wonderfully  for  all  this  garnishing 
and  furbishing.  I  got  up  early  every  morning, 
and  nailed  up  the  rose-bushes,  and  my  wife  got 
up  and  watered  the  geraniums,  and  both  flattered 
ourselves  and  each  other  on  our  early  hours  and 
thrifty  habits.  But  soon,  like  Adam  and  Eve  in 
Paradise,  we  found  our  little  domain  to  ask  more 
hands  than  ours  to  get  it  into  shape.  "So,"  says  I 
to  my  wife,  "  I  will  bring  out  a  gardener  when  I 
come  next  time,  and  he  shall  lay  it  out,  and  get 
it  into  order ;  and  after  that,  I  can  easily  keep  it 
by  the  work  of  my  leisure  hours." 

Our  gardener  was  a  very  sublime  sort^  of  a 
man — an  Englishman,  and,  of  course,  used  to  lay- 
ing out  noblemen's  places,  and  we  became  as  grass- 
hoppers in  our  own  eyes,  when  he  talked  of  Lord 
this  and  that's  estate,  and  began  to  question  us 
about  our  carriage-drive  and  conservatory,  and  we 
could  with  difficulty  bring  the  gentleman  down  to 
any  understanding  of  the  humble  limits  of  our  ex- 
pectations— merely  to  dress  out  the  walks  and  lay 
out  a  kitchen  garden,  and  plant  potatoes,  turnips, 
beets,  and  carrots,  was  quite  a  descent  for  him. 
In  fact,  so  strong  were  his  aesthetic  preferences, 
that  he  persuaded  my  wife  to  let  him  dig  all  the 


62     A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES. 

turf  off  from  a  green  square  opposite  the  bay  -win- 
dow, and  to  lay  it  out  into  divers  little  triangles, 
resembling  small  pieces  of  pie,  together  with  cir- 
cles, mounds,  and  various  other  geometrical  orna- 
ments, the  planning  and  planting  of  which  soon 
engrossed  my  wife's  whole  soul.  The  planting  of 
the  potatoes,  beets,  carrots,  &c.,  was  intrusted  to 
a  raw  Irishman ;  for,  as  to  me,  to  confess  the 
truth,  I  began  to  fear  that  digging  did  not  agree 
with  me.  It  is  true  that  I  was  exceedingly  vigor- 
ous at  first,  and  actually  planted  with  my  own 
hands  two  or  three  long  rows  of  potatoes ;  after 
which  I  got  a  turn  of  rheumatism  in  my  shoulder 
which  lasted  me  a  week.  Stooping  down  to  plant 
beets  and  radishes  gave  me  a  vertigo,  so  that  I 
was  obliged  to  content  myself  with  a  general  super- 
intendence of  the  garden ;  that  is  to  say,  I  charged 
my  Englishman  to  see  that  my  Irishman  did  his 
duty  properly,  and  then  got  on  to  my  horse  and 
rode  to  the  city.  But  about  one  part  of  the  mat- 
ter I  must  say  I  was  not  remiss — and  that  is,  in 
the  purchase  of  seed  and  garden  utensils.  Not  a 
day  passed  that  I  did  not  come  home  with  my 
pockets  stuffed  with  choice  seeds,  roots,  &c.,  and 
the  variety  of  my  garden  utensils  was  unequalled. 


A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES.     63 

There  was  not  a  pruning-hook  of  any  pattern,  not 
a  hoe,  rake,  or  spade,  great  or  small,  that  I  did 
not  have  specimens  of;  and  flower  seeds  and  bulbs 
were  also  forthcoming  in  liberal  proportions.  In 
fact,  I  had  opened  an  account  at  a  thriving  seed 
store ;  for  when  a  man  is  driving  a  business  on  a 
large  scale,  it  is  not  always  convenient  to  hand  out 
the  change  for  every  little  matter,  and  buying 
things  on  account  is  as  neat  and  agreeable  a  mode 
of  acquisition  as  paying  bills  with  one's  note. 

"  You  know  we  must  have  a  cow,"  said  my  wife, 
the  morning  of  our  second  week.  Our  friend  the 
gardener,  who  had  now  worked  with  .us  at  the 
rate  of  two  dollars  a  day  for  two  weeks,  was  at 
hand  in  a  moment  in  our  emergency.  We  wanted 
to  buy  a  cow,  and  he  had  one  to  sell — a  wonder- 
ful cow,  of  a  real  English  breed.  He  would  not 
sell  her  for  any  money,  except  to  oblige  particular 
friends ;  but  as  we  had  patronized  him,  we  should 
have  her  for  forty  dollars.  How  much  we  were 
obliged  to  him  !  The  forty  dollars  were  speedily 
forthcoming,  and  so  also  was  the  cow. 

"What  makes  her  shake  her  head  in  that 
way?"  said  my  wife,  apprehensively,  as  she  ob- 
served the  interesting  beast  making  sundry  de- 


64      A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES. 

monstrations  -with  her  horns.     "  I  hope  she's  mild 
and  gentle." 

The  gardener  fluently  demonstrated  that  the 
animal  was  a  pattern  of  all  the  softer  graces,  and 
that  this  head-shaking  was  merely  a  little  nervous 
affection  consequent  on  the  embarrassment  of  a 
new  position.  We  had  faith  to  believe  almost 
anything  at  this  time,  and  therefore  came  from, 
the  barn-yard  to  the  house  as  much  satisfied  with 
our  purchase  as  Job  with  his  three  thousand 
camels  and  five  hundred  yoke  of  oxen.  Her  quon- 
dam master  milked  her  for  us  the  first  evening, 
out  of  a  delicate  regard  to  her  feelings  as  a 
stranger,  and  we  fancied  that  we  discerned  forty 
dollars'  worth  of  excellence  in  the  very  quality  of 
the  milk. 

But  alas !  the  next  morning  our  Irish  girl  came 
in  with  a  most  rueful  face :  "  And  is  it  milking 
that  baste  you'd  have  me  be  after  ?"  she  said ; 
"  sure,  and  she  won't  let  me  come  near  her.'' 

"Nonsense,  Biddy!"  said  I,  " you  frightened 
her,  perhaps;  the  cow  is  perfectly  gentle ;"  and 
with  the  pail  on  my  arm  I  sallied  forth.  The 
moment  madam  saw  me  entering  the  cow-yard, 
she  greeted  me  with  a  very  expressive  flourish  of 
her  horns. 


ASCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES.      65 

"  This  won't  do,"  said  I,  and  I  stopped.  The 
lady  evidently  was  serious  in  her  intentions  of 
resisting  any  personal  approaches.  I  cut  a  cudgel, 
and  putting  on  a  bold  face,  marched  towards  her, 
while  Biddy  followed  with  her  milking-stool.  Ap- 
parently, the  beast  saw  the  necessity  of  tempo- 
rizing, for  she  assumed  a  demure  expression,  and 
Biddy  sat  down  to  milk.  I  stood  sentry,  and  if 
the  lady  shook  her  head,  I  shook  my  stick,  and 
thus  the  milking  operation  proceeded  with  tolera- 
ble serenity  and  success. 

"  There !"  said  I,  with  dignity,  when  the  froth- 
ing pail  was  full  to  the  brim.  "  That  will  do? 
Biddy/'  and  I  dropped  my  stick.  Dump  !  came 
madam's  heel  on  the  side  of  the  pail,  and  it 
flew  like  a  rocket  into  the  air,  while  the  milky 
flood  showered  plentifully  over  me,  in  a  new 
broadcloth  riding-coat  that  I  had  assumed  for  the 
first  time  that  morning.  "  Whew  1"  said  I,  as 
soon  as  I  could  get  my  breath  from  this  extraordi- 
nary shower-bath ;  "what's  all  this?"  My  wife 
came  running  toward  the  cow-yard,  as  I  stood 
with  the  milk  streaming  from  my  hair,  filling  my 
eyes,  and  dropping  from  the  tip  of  my  nose !  and 
she  and  Biddy  performed  a  recitative  lamentation 


66     A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES. 

over  me  in  alternate  strophes,  like  the  chorus  in 
a  Greek  tragedy.  Such  was  our  first  morning's 
experience;  but  as  we  had  announced  our  bar- 
gain with  some  considerable  flourish  of  trumpets 
among  our  neighbours  and  friends,  we  concluded 
to  hush  the  matter  up  as  much  as  possible. 

"  These  very  superior  cows  are  apt  to  be  cross  ;" 
said  I;  "we  must  bear  with  it  as  we  do  with  the 
eccentricities  of  genius ;  besides,  when  she  gets 
accustomed  to  us,  it  will  be  better." 

Madam  was  therefore  installed  into  her  pretty 
pasture-lot,  and  my  wife  contemplated  with  plea- 
sure the  picturesque  effect  of  her  appearance  re- 
clining on  the  green  slope  of  the  pasture-lot,  or 
standing  ancle-deep  in  the  gurgling  brook,  or  re- 
clining under  the  deep  shadows  of  the  trees — she 
was,  in  fact,  a  handsome  cow,  which  may  account, 
in  part,  for  some  of  her  sins ;  and  this  considera- 
tion inspired  me  with  some  degree  of  indulgence 
toward  her  foibles. 

But  when  I  found  that  Biddy  could  never  suc- 
ceed in  getting  near  her  in  the  pasture,  and  that 
any  kind  of  success  in  the  milking  operations  re- 
quired my  vigorous  personal  exertions  morning 
and  evening,  the  matter  wore  a  more  serious  as- 


A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES.      67 

pect,  and  I  began  to  feel  quite  pensive  and  appre- 
hensive. It  is  very  well  to  talk  of  the  pleasures 
of  the  milkmaid  going  out  in  the  balmy  freshness 
of  the  purple  dawn ;  but  imagine  a  poor  fellow 
pulled  out  of  bed  on  a  drizzly,  rainy  morning,  and 
equipping  himself  for  a  scamper  through  a  wet 
pasture-lot,  rope  in  hand,  at  the  heels  of  such  a 
termagant  as  mine  !  In  fact,  madam  established 
a  regular  series  of  exercises,  which  had  all  to  be 
gone  through  before  she  would  suffer  herself  to 
be  captured ;  as,  first,  she  would  station  herself 
plump  in  the  middle  of  a  marsh,  which  lay  at  the 
lower  part  of  the  lot,  and  look  very  innocent  and 
absent-minded,  as  if  reflecting  on  some  sentimen- 
tal subject.  "  Suke  !  Suke  !  Suke  !"  I  ejaculate 
cautiously,  tottering  along  the  edge  of  the  marsh, 
and  holding  out  an  ear  of  corn.  The  lady  looks 
gracious,  and  comes  forward,  almost  within  reach 
of  my  hand.  I  make  a  plunge  to  throw  the  rope 
over  her  horns,  and  away  she  goes,  kicking  up 
mud  and  water  into  my  face  in  her  flight,  while  I, 
losing  my  balance,  tumble  forward  into  the  marsh. 
I  pick  myself  up,  and,  full  of  wrath,  behold  her 
placidly  chewing  the  cud  on  the  other  side,  with 
the  meekest  air  imaginable,  as  who  should  say, 


68     A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  hurt,  sir."  I  dash  through 
swamp  and  bog  furiously,  resolving  to  carry  all 
by  coup  de  main.  Then  follows  a  miscellaneous 
season  of  dodging,  scampering,  and  bo-peeping 
among  the  trees  of  the  grove,  interspersed  with 
sundry  occasional  races  across  the  bog  aforesaid. 
I  always  wondered  how  I  caught  her  every  day, 
when  I  had  tied  her  head  to  one  post  and  her 
heels  to  another,  I  wiped  the  sweat  from  my  brow 
and  thought  I  was  paying  dear  for  the  eccentrici- 
ties of  genius.  A  genius  she  certainly  was,  for 
besides  her  surprising  agility,  she  had  other  tal- 
ents equally  extraordinary.  There  was  no  fence 
that  she  could  not  take  down ;  nowhere  that  she 
could  not  go.  She  took  the  pickets  off  the  garden 
fence  at  her  pleasure,  using  her  horns  as  handily 
as  I  could  use  a  claw  hammer.  Whatever  she  has 
a  mind  to,  whether  it  were  a  bite  in  the  cabbage 
garden,  or  a  run  in  the  corn  patch,  or  a  foraging 
expedition  into  the  flower  borders,  she  made  her- 
self equally  welcome  and  at  home.  Such  a  scam- 
pering and  driving,  such  cries  of  "  Suke  here"  and 
"  Suke  there,"  as  constantly  greeted  our  ears 
kept  our  little  establishment  in  a  constant  commo- 
tion. At  last,  when  she  one  morning  made  a 


A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES.      69 

plunge  at/  the  skirts  of  a  new  broadcloth  frock 
coat,  and  carried 'off  one  flap  on  her  horns,  my  pa- 
tience gave  out,  and  I  determined  to  sell  her. 

As,  however,  I  had  made  a  good  story  of  my 
misfortunes  among  my  friends  and  neighbours,  and 
amused  them  with  sundry  whimsical  accounts  of 
my  various  adventures  in  the  cow-catching  line, 
I  found  when  I  came  to  speak  of  selling,  that 
there  was  a  general  coolness  on  the  subject,  and 
nobody  seemed  disposed  to  be  the  recipient  of  my 
responsibilities.  In  short,  I  was  glad,  at  last,  to 
get  fifteen  dollars  for  her,  and  comforted  myself 
with  thinking  that  I  had  at  least  gained  twenty- 
five  dollars'  worth  of  experience  in  the  transac- 
tion, to  say  nothing  of  the  fine  exercise. 

I  comforted  my  soul,  however,  the  day  after,  by 
purchasing  and  bringing  home  to  my  wife  a  fine 
swarm  of  bees. 

"Your  bee,  now,"  says  I,  "is  a  really  classical 
insect,  and  breathes  of  Virgil  and  the  Augustan 
age — and  then,  she  is  a  domestic,  tranquil,  placid 
creature !  How  beautiful  the  murmuring  of  a 
hive  near  our  honeysuckle  of  a  calm  summer 
evening !  Then  they  are  tranquilly  and  peace- 
fully amassing  for  us  their  stores  of  sweetness, 


70     A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES. 

while  they  lull  us  with  their  murmurs.  What  a 
beautiful  image  of  disinterested  benevolence  !"  ' 

My  wife  declared  that  I  was  quite  a  poet,  and 
the  bee-hive  was  duly  installed  near  the  flower- 
pots, that  the  delicate  creatures  might  have  the 
full  benefit  of  the  honeysuckle  and  mignonette. 
My  spirits  began  to  rise.  I  bought  three  differ- 
ent treatises  on  the  rearing  of  bees,  and  also  one 
or  two  new  patterns  of  hives,  and  proposed  to  rear 
my  bees  on  the  most  approved  model.  I  charged 
all  the  establishment  to  let  me  know  when  there 
was  any  indication  of  an  emigrating  spirit,  that  I 
might  be  ready  to  receive  the  new  swarm  into  my 
patent  mansion. 

Accordingly,  one  afternoon,  when  I  was  deep 
in  an  article  that  I  was  preparing  for  the  North 
American  Review,  intelligence  was  brought  me  that 
a  swarm  had  risen.  I  was  on  the  alert  at  once, 
and  discovered  on  going  out  that  the  provoking 
creatures  had  chosen  the  top  of  a  tree  about  thirty 
feet  high  to  settle  on.  Now,  my  books  had  care- 
fully instructed  me  just  how  to  approach  the 
swarm  and  cover  them  with  a  new  hive,  but  I  had 
never  contemplated  the  possibility  of  the  swarm 
being,  like  Haman's  gallows,  forty  cubits  high. 


A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES.      71 

I  looked  despairingly  upon  the  smooth-bark  tree, 
which  rose  like  a  column,  full  twenty  feet,  without 
branch  or  twig.  "  What  is  to  be  done  ?"  said  I, 
appealing  to  two  or  three  neighbours.  At  last,  at 
the  recommendation  of  one  of  them,  a  ladder  was 
raised  against  the  tree,  and,  equipped  with  a  shirt 
outside  of  my  clothes,  a  green  veil  over  my  head, 
and  a  pair  of  leather  gloves  in  my  hand,  I  went 
up  with  a  saw  at  my  girdle  to  saw  off  the  branch 
on  which  they  had  settled,  and  lower  it  by  a  rope 
to  a  neighbour,  similarly  equipped,  who  stood  be- 
low with  the  hive. 

As  a  result  of  this  manoeuvre  the  fastidious  little 
insects  were  at  length  fairly  installed  at  house- 
keeping in  my  new  patent  hive,  and,  rejoicing  in 
my  success,  I  again  sat  down  to  my  article. 

That  evening  my  wife  and  I  took  tea  in  our  ho- 
neysuckle arbour,  with  our  little  ones  and  a  friend 
or  two,  to  whom  I  showed  my  treasures,  and  expa- 
tiated at  large  on  the  comforts  and  conveniences 
of  the  new  patent  hive. 

But  alas  for  the  hopes  of  man  !  The  little  un- 
grateful wretches,  what  must  they  do  but  take  ad- 
vantage of  my  oversleeping  myself  the  next  morn- 
ing, to  clear  out  for  new  quarters  without  so  much 


72      A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES. 

as  leaving  me  a  P.  P.  C.  Such  was  the  fact ;  at 
eight  o'clock  I  found  the  new  patent  hive  as  good 
as  ever ;  but  the  bees  I  have  never  seen  from  that 
day  to  this ! 

"The  rascally  little  conservatives!"  said  I;  "I 
believe  that  they  have  never  had  a  new  idea  from 
the  days  of  Yirgil  down,  and  are  entirely  unpre- 
pared to  appreciate  improvements." 

Meanwhile  the  seeds  began  to  germinate  in  our 
garden,  when  we  found,  to  our  chagrin,  that,  be- 
tween John  Bull  and  Paddy,  there  had  occurred 
sundry  confusions  in  the  several  departments. 
Radishes  had  been  planted  broadcast,  carrots  and 
beets  arranged  in  hills,  and  here  and  there  a 
whole  paper  of  seed  appeared  to  have  been  planted 
bodily.  My  good  old  uncle,  who,  somewhat  to  my 
confusion,  made  me  a  call  at  this  time,  was  greatly 
distressed  and  scandalized  by  the  appearance  of 
our  garden.  But,  by  a  deal  of  fussing,  transplant- 
ing, and  replanting,  it  was  got  into  some  shape  and 
order.  My  uncle  was  rather  troublesome,  as  care- 
ful old  people  are  apt  to  be — annoying  us  by  per- 
petual inquiries  of  what  we  gave  for  this,  and  that, 
and  running  up  provoking  calculations  on  the 
final  cost  of  matters,  and  we  began  to  wish  that 


A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES.      73 

his  visit  might  be  as  short  as  would  be  conve- 
nient. 

But  when,  on  taking  leave,  he  promised  to  send 
us  a  fine  young  cow  of  his  own  raising,  our  hearts 
rather  smote  us  for  our  impatience. 

"  'Taint  any  of  your  new  breeds,  nephew,"  said 
the  old  man,  "yet  I  can  say  that  she's  a  gentle, 
likely  young  crittur,  and  better  worth  forty  dol- 
lars than  many  a  one  that's  cried  up  for  Ayrshire  or 
Durham ;  and  you  shall  be  quite  welcome  to  her." 

We  thanked  him,  as  in  duty  bound,  and  thought 
that  if  he  was  full  of  old-fashioned  notions,  he  was 
no  less  full  of  kindness  and  good  will. 

And  now,  with  a  new  cow,  with  our  garden  be- 
ginning to  thrive  under  the  gentle  showers  of 
May,  with  our  flower-borders  blooming,  my  wife 
and  I  began  to  think  ourselves  in  Paradise.  But 
alas  !  the  same  sun  and  rain  that  warmed  our  fruit 
and  flowers  brought  up  from  the  earth,  like  sulky 
gnomes,  a  vast  array  of  purple-leaved  weeds,  that 
almost  in  a  night  seemed  to  cover  the  whole  sur- 
face of  the  garden  beds.  Our  gardeners  both  be- 
ing gone,  the  weeding  was  expected  to  be  done  by 
me — one  of  the  anticipated  relaxations  of  my  lei- 
sure hours. 


74     A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  in  reply  to  a  gentle  intimation 
from  my  wife,  "  when  "my  article  is  finished,  I'll 
take  a  day  and  weed  all  up  clean." 

Thus  days  slipped  by,  till  at  length  the  article 
was  dispatched,  and  I  proceeded  to  my  garden. 
Amazement !  who  could  have  possibly  foreseen  that 
anything  earthly  could  grow  so  fast  in  a  few  days ! 
There  were  no  bounds,  no  alleys,  no  beds,  no  dis- 
tinction of  beet  and  carrot,  nothing  but  a  flourish- 
ing congregation  of  weeds  nodding  and  bobbing 
in  the'  morning  breeze,  as  if  to  say, — "  We  hope 
you  are  well,  sir — we've  got  the  ground,  you  see  !" 
I  began  to  explore,  and  to  hoe,  and  to  weed.  Ah ! 
did  anybody  ever  try  to  clean  a  neglected  carrot 
or  beet  bed,  or  bend  his  back  in  a  hot  sun  over 
rows  of  weedy  onions  !  He  is  the  man  to  feel  for 
my  despair !  How  I  weeded,  and  sweat,  and 
sighed !  till,  when  high  noon  came  on,  as  the  re- 
sult of  all  my  toils,  only  three  beds  were  cleaned  ! 
And  how  disconsolate  looked  the  good  seed,  thus 
unexpectedly  delivered  from  its  sheltering  tares, 
and  laid  open  to  a  broiling  July  sun  !  Every  ju- 
venile beet  and  carrot  lay  flat  down,  wilted  and 
drooping,  as  if,  like  me,  they  had  been  weeding 
instead  of  being  weeded. 


A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES.      75 

"  This  weeding  is  quite  a  serious  matter,"  said 
I  to  my  wife ;  "the  fact  is,  I  must  have  help  about 
it!" 

"Just  what  I  was  myself  thinking,"  said  my 
wife.  "  My  flower-borders  are  all  in  confusion, 
and  my  petunia  mounds  so  completely  overgrown, 
that  nobody  would  dream  what  they  were  meant 
for !" 

In  short  it  was  agreed  between  us  that  we 
could  not  afford  the  expense  of  a  full-grown  man 
to  keep  our  place,  yet  we  must  reinforce  ourselves 
by  the  addition  of  a  boy,  and  a  brisk  youngster 
from  the  vicinity  was  pitched  upon  as  the  happy 
addition.  This  youth  was  a  fellow  of  decidedly 
quick  parts,  and  in  one  forenoon  made  such  a 
clearing  in  our  garden  that  I  was  delighted — bed 
after  bed  appeared  to  view,  all  cleared  and 
dressed  .out  with  such  celerity  that  I  was  quite 
ashamed  of  my  own  slowness,  until,  on  examina- 
tion, I  discovered  that  he  had,  with  great  imparti- 
ality, pulled  up  both  weeds  and  vegetables. 

This  hopeful  beginning  was  followed  up  by  a 
succession  of  proceedings  which  should  be  recorded 
for  the  instruction  of  all  who  seek  for  help  from 
the  race  of.  boys.  Such  a  loser  of  all  tools,  great 


76     A  SCHOLAB'S  ADVENTUKES. 

and  small — such  an  invariable  leaver-open  of  all 
gates,  and  a  letter  down  of  bars — such  a  personi- 
fication of  all  manner  of  anarchy  and  ill  luck — 
had  never  before  been  seen  on  the  estate.  His 
time,  while  I  was  gone  to  the  city,  was  agreeably 
diversified  with  roosting  on  the  fence,  swinging  on 
the  gates,  making  poplar  whistles  for  the  children, 
hunting  eggs,  and  eating  whatever  fruit  happened 
to  be  in  season,  in  which  latter  accomplishment  he 
was  certainly  quite  distinguished.  After  about 
three  weeks  of  this  kind  of  joint  gardening,  we 
concluded  to  dismiss  master  Tom  from  the  firm, 
and  employ  a  man. 

"  Things  must  be  taken  care  of,"  said  I,  "  and 
I  cannot  do  it.  'Tis  out  of  the  question."  And 
so  the  man  was  secured. 

But  lam  making  a  long  story,  and  may  chance 
to  outrun  the  sympathies  of  my  readers.  Time 
would  fail  me  to  tell  of  the  distresses  manifold 
that  fell  upon  me — of  cows  dried  up  by  poor 
milkers,  of  hens  that  wouldn't  set  at  all,  and  hens 
that  despite  all  law  and  reason  wonld  set  on  one 
egg,  of  hens  that  having  hatched  families  straight- 
way led  them  into  all  manner  of  high  grass  and 
weeds,  by  which  means  numerous  young  chicks 


A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES.      77 

caught  premature  colds  and  perished !  and  how 
when  I,  with  manifold  toil,  had  driven  one  of 
these  inconsiderate  gadders  into  a  coop,  to  teach 
her  domestic  habits,  the  rats  came  down  upon  her, 
and  slew  every  chick  in  one  night !  how  my  pigs 
were  always  practising  gymnastic  exercises  over 
the  fence  of  the  stye,  and  marauding  in  the  gar- 
den. (I  wonder  that  Fourier  never  conceived  the 
idea  of  having  his  garden-land  ploughed  by  pigs,  for 
certainly  they  manifest  quite  a  decided  elective 
attraction  for  turning  up  the  earth.) 

When  autumn  came,  I  went  soberly  to  market  in 
the  neighbouring  city,  and  bought  my  potatoes 
and  turnips  like  any  other  man,  for,  between- all 
the  various  systems  of  gardening  pursued,  I  was 
obliged  to  confess  that  my  first  horticultural 
effort  was  a  decided  failure.  But  though  all  my 
rural  visions  had  proved  illusive,  there  were  some 
very  substantial  realities.  My  bill  at  the  seed 
store,  for  seeds,  roots,  and  tools,  for  example,  had 
run  up  to  an  amount  that  was  perfectly  unac- 
countable ;  then  there  were  various  smaller  items, 
such  as  horse-shoeing,  carriage-mending — for  he 
who  lives  in  the  country  and  does  business  in  the 
city  must  keep  his  vehicle  and  appurtenances.  I 


78      A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES. 

had  always  prided  myself  on  being  an  exact  man, 
and  settling  every  account,  great  and  small,  with 
the  going  out  of  the  old  year,  but  this  season  I 
found  myself  sorely  put  to  it.  In  fact,  had  not  I 
received  a  timely  lift  from  my  good  old  uncle,  I 
had  made  a  complete  break-down.  The  old  gen- 
tleman's troublesome  habit  of  ciphering  and  cal- 
culating, it  seems,  had  led  him  beforehand  to 
foresee  that  I  was  not  exactly  in  the  money-making 
line,  nor  likely  to  possess  much  surplus  revenue  to 
meet  the  note  which  I  had  given  for  my  ^place, 
and  therefore  he  quietly  paid  it  himself,  as  I  dis- 
covered when,  after  much  anxiety  and  some  sleep- 
less nights,  I  went  to  the  holder  to  ask  for  an  ex- 
tension of  credit. 

"  He  was  right  after  all,"  said  I  to  my  wife, 
"  '  to  live  cheap  in  the  country,  a  body  must  know 
how.'" 


"  A  little  child  shall  lead  them." 

ONE  cold  market  morning  I  looked  into  a  milli- 
ner's shop,  and  there  I  saw  a  hale,  hearty,  well- 
browned  young  fellow  from  the  country,  with  his 
long  cart  whip,  and  lion  shag  coat,  holding  up 
some  little  matter,  and  turning  it  about  on  his 
great  fist.  And  what  do  you  suppose  it  was  ?  A 
baby's  bonnet!  A  little,  soft,  blue  satin  hood, 
with  a  swan's  down  border,  white  as  the  new  fallen 
snow,  with  a  frill  of  rich  blonde  around  the  edge. 

By  his  side  stood  a  very  pretty  woman  holding, 
with  no  small  pride,  the  baby — for  evidently  it 
was  the  baby.  Any  one  could  read  that  fact  in 
every  glance,  as  they  looked  at  each  other,  and 
then  at  the  large  unconscious  eyes,  and  fat  dim- 
pled cheeks  of  the  little  one. 

It  was  evident  that  neither  of  them  had  ever 
seen  a  baby  like  that  before. 

"  But  really,  Mary,"  said  the  young  man,  "isn't 
three  dollars  very  high?" 

Mary  very  prudently  said  nothing,  but  taking 

79 


80  CHILDREN. 

the  little  bonnet,  tied  it  on  the  little  head,  and 
held  up  the  little  baby.  The  man  looked,  and 
without  another  word  down  went  the  three  dollars ; 
all  that  the  last  week's  butter  came  to;  and 
as  they  walked  out  of  the  shop,  it  is  hard  to 
say  which  looked  the  most  delighted  with  the 
bargain. 

"Ah,"  thought  I,  "a  little  child  shall  lead 
them." 

Another  day,  as  I  was  passing  a  carriage  fac- 
tory along  one  of  our  principal  back  streets,  I  saw 
a  young  mechanic  at  work  on  a  wheel.  The  rough 
body  of  a  carriage  stood  beside  him,  and  there, 
wrapped  up  snugly,  all  hooded  and  cloaked,  sat  a 
little  dark-eyed  girl,  about  a  year  old,  playing 
with  a  great  shaggy  dog.  As  I  stopped,  the  man 
looked  up  from  his  work  and  turned  admiringly 
toward  his  little  companion,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  See  what  I  have  got  here  !" 

"Yes,"  thought  I,  "and  if  the  little  lady  ever 
gets  a  glance  from  admiring  swains  as  sincere  as 
that,  she  will  be  lucky." 

Ah !  these  children,  little  witches,  pretty  even 
in  all  their  faults  and  absurdities.  See,  for  ex- 
ample, yonder  little  fellow  in  a  haughty  fit ;  he 


CHILDREN.  81 

has  shaken  his  long  curls  over  his  deep  .blue  eyes ; 
the  fair  brow  is  bent  in  a  frown ;  the  rose-leaf  lip 
is  pursed  up  in  infinite  defiance ;  and  the  white 
shoulder  thrust  naughtily  forward.  Can  any  but  a 
child  look  so  pretty,  even  in  their  naughtiness  ? 

Then  comes  the  instant  change  ;  flashing  smiles 
and  tears,  as  the  good  comes  back  all  in  a  rush, 
and  you  are  overwhelmed  with  protestations,  pro- 
mises, and  kisses  !  They  are  irresistible,  too,  these 
little  ones.  They  pull  away  the  scholar's  pen ; 
tumble  about  his  paper;  make  somersets  over 
his  books ;  and  what  can  he  do  ?  They  tear 
up  newspapers ;  litter  the  carpets ;  break,  pull, 
and  upset,  and  then  jabber  unimaginable  Eng- 
lish in  self-defiance,  and  what  can  you  do  for 
yourself  ? 

"  If  I  had  a  child,"  says  the  precise  man,  "you 
should  see." 

He  does  have  a  child,  and  his  child  tears  up 
his  papers,  tumbles  over  his  things,  and  pulls  his 
nose,  like  all  other  children,  and  what  has  the 
precise  man  to  say  for  himself?  Nothing;  he 
is  like  every  body  else ;  "  a  little  child  may  lead 
him." 

The  hardened  heart  of  the  worldly  man  is  un- 


82  CHILDREN. 

locked  by  the  guileless  tones  and  simple  caresses 
of  his  son  ;  but  he  repays  it  in  time,  by  imparting 
to  his  boy  all  the  crooked  tricks  and  callous 
maxims  which  have  undone  himself. 

Go  to  the  jail — to  the  penitentiary,  and  find 
there  the  wretch  most  sullen,  brutal,  and  hardened. 
Then  look  at  your  infant  son.  Such  as  he  is  to 
you,  such  to  some  mother  was  this  man.  That 
hard  hand  was  soft  and  delicate  ;  that  rough  voice 
was  tender  and  lisping  ;  fond  eyes  followed  him  as 
he  played,  and  he  was  rocked  and  cradled  as 
something  holy.  There  was  a  time  when  his 
heart,  soft  and  unworn,  might  have  opened  to 
questionings  of  God  and  Jesus,  and  been  sealed 
with  the  seal  of  Heaven.  But  harsh  hands  seized 
it ;  fierce  goblin  lineaments  were  impressed  upon 
it ;  and  all  is  over  with  him  forever  ! 

So  of  the  tender,  weeping  child,  is  made  the 
callous,  heartless  man ;  of  the  all-believing  child, 
the  sneering  sceptic  ;  of  the  beautiful  and  modest, 
the  shameless  and  abandoned ;  and  this  is  what 
the  world  does  for  the  little  one. 

There  was  a  time  when  the  divine  One  stood 
on  earth,  and  little  children  sought  to  draw  near 
to  him.  But  harsh  human  beings  stood  between 


CHILDREN.  83 

him  and  them,  forbidding  their  approach.  Ah! 
has  it  not  always  been  so  ?  Do  not  even  we 
with  our  hard  and  unsubdued  feeling,  our  worldly 
and  unscriptural  habits  and  maxims,  stand  like  a 
dark  screen  between  our  little  child  and  its  Sa- 
viour, and  keep  even  from  the  choice  bud  of  our 
hearts,  the  sweet  radiance  which  might  unfold  it 
for  paradise?  "Suffer  little  children  to  come 
unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not,"  is  still  the  voice 
of  the  Son  of  God,  but  the  cold  world  still  closes 
around  and  forbids.  When  of  old,  disciples  would 
question  their  Lord  of  the  higher  mysteries  of  his 
kingdom,  he  took  a  little  child  and  set  him  in  the 
midst,  as  a  sign  of  him  who  should  be  greatest  in 
Heaven.  That  gentle  teacher  remains  still  to  us. 
By  every  hearth  and  fireside,  Jesus  still  sets  the 
little  child  in  the  midst  of  us. 

Wouldst  thou  know,  0  parent,  what  is  that  faith 
which  unlocks  heaven  ?  Go  not  to  wrangling  po- 
lemics, or  creeds  and  forms  of  theology,  but  draw 
to  thy  bosom  thy  little  one,  and  read  in  that  clear 
trusting  eye  the  lesson  of  eternal  life.  Be  only 
to  thy  God  as  thy  child  is  to  thee,  and  all  is  done  ! 
Blessed  shalt  thou  be  indeed,  "  when  a  little  child 
shall  lead  thee  !" 


IT  was  a  splendid  room.  Rich  curtains  swept 
down  to  the  floor  in  graceful  folds,  half  excluding 
the  light,  and  shedding  it  in  soft  hues  over  the 
fine  old  paintings  on  the  walls,  and  over  the  broad 
mirrors  that  reflect  all  that  taste  can  accomplish 
by  the  hand  of  wealth.  Books,  the  rarest  and 
most  costly,  were  around,  in  every  form  of  gor- 
geous binding  and  gilding,  and  among  them,  glit- 
tering in  ornament,  lay  a  magnificent  Bible — a 
Bible  too  beautiful  in  its  appearance,  too  showy,  too 
ornamental,  ever  to  have  been  meant  to  be  read — 
a  Bible  which  every  visitor  should  take  up,  and 
exclaim,  "  What  a  beautiful  edition  !  what  superb 
binding !"  and  then  lay  it  down  again. 

And  the  master  of  the  house  was  lounging  on  a 
sofa,  looking  over  a  late  review — for  he  was  a  man 
of  leisure,  taste,  and  reading — but  then,  as  to 
reading  the  Bible  ! — that  forms,  we  suppose,  no 
part  of  the  pretensions  of  a  man  of  letters.  The 

Bible — certainly  he  considered  it  a  very  respecta- 

84 


THE  Two  BIBLES.  35 

ble  book — a  fine  specimen  of  ancient  literature, 
an  admirable  book- of  moral  precepts — but  then, 
as  to  its  divine  origin  he  had  not  exactly  made  up 
his  mind — some  parts  appeared  strange  and  in- 
consistent to  his  reason,  others  were  very  re- 
volting to  his  taste — true,  he  had  never  studied  it 
very  attentively,  yet  such  was  his  general  impres- 
sion about  it — but  on  the  whole,  he  thought  it  well 
enough  to  keep  an  elegant  copy  of  it  on  his  draw- 
ing-room table. 

So  much  for  one  picture,  now  for  another. 

Come  with  us  into  this  little  dark  alley,  and  up 
a  flight  of  ruinous  stairs.  It  is  a  bitter  night,  and 
the  wind  and  snow  might  drive  through  the  cre- 
vices of  the  poor  room,  were  it  not  that  careful 
hands  have  stopped  them  with  paper  or  cloth. 
But  for  all  this  little  carefulness,  the  room  is  bitter 
cold — cold  even  with  those  few  decaying  brands 
on  the  hearth,  which  that  sorrowful  woman  is  try- 
ing to  kindle  with  her  breath.  Do  you  see  that 
pale  little  thin  girl,  with  large  bright  eyes,  who  is 
crouching  so  near  her  mother  ?  hark !  how  she 
coughs — now  listen  : 

"Mary,  my  dear  child,"  says  the  mother, 
"do  keep  that  shawl  close  about  you,  you  are 


86  THE  Two  BIBLES. 

cold,  I  know,"  and  the  woman   shivers   as   she 
speaks. 

"  No,  mother,  not  very,"  replies  the  child,  again 
relapsing  into  that  hollow,  ominous  cough — "I 
wish  you  wouldn't  make  me  always  wear  your 
shawl  when  it  is  cold,  mother." 

"  Dear  child,  you  need  it  most — how  you  cough 
to-night,"  replies  the  mother,  "it  really  don't  seem 
right  for  me  to  send  you  up  that  long  street,  now 
your  shoes  have  grown  so  poor ;  I  must  go  myself 
after  this." 

"  Oh !  mother,  you  must  stay  with  the  baby ; 
what  if  he  should  have  one  of  those  dreadful  fits 
while  you  are  gone ;  no,  I  can  go  very  well,  I  have 
got  used  to  the  cold,  now." 

"But,  mother,  I'm  cold,"  says  a  little  voice 
from  the  scanty  bed  in  the  corner,  "  mayn't  I  get 
up  and  come  to  the  fire  ?" 

"  Dear  child,  it  would  not  warm  you — it  is 
very  cold  here,  and  I  can't  make  any  more  fire 
to-night." 

"  Why  can't  you,  mother  ?  there  are  four  whole 
sticks  of  wood  in  the  box,  do  put  one  on,  and  let's 
get  warm  once." 

"No,  my  dear  little  Henry,"  says  the  mother, 


THE  Two  BIBLES.  87 

soothingly,  "  that  is  all  the  wood  mother  has,  and 
I  haven't  any  money  to  get  more." 

And  now  wakens  the  sick  baby  in  the  little  cra- 
dle, and  mother  and  daughter  are  both  for  some 
time  busy  in  attempting  to  supply  its  little  wants, 
and  lulling  it  again  to  sleep. 

And  now  look  you  well  at  that  mother.  Six 
months  ago  she  had  a  husband,  whose  earnings 
procured  for  her  both  the  necessaries  and  com- 
forts of  life — her  children  were  clothed,  fed,  and 
schooled,  without  thought  of  ners.  But  husband- 
less  and  alone,  in  the  heart  of  a  great  busy  city, 
with  feeble  health,  and  only  the  precarious  re- 
sources of  her  needle,  she  had  come  rapidly  down 
from  comfort  to  extreme  poverty.  Look  at  her 
now,  as  she  is  to-night.  She  knows  full  well  that 
the  pale  bright-eyed  girl,  whose  hollow  cough  con- 
stantly rings  in  her  ears,  is  far  from  well.  She 
knows  that  cold,  and  hunger,  and  exposure  of 
every  kind,  are  daily  and  surely  wearing  away  her 
life,  and  yet  what  can  she  do  ?  Poor  soul,  how 
many  times  has  she  calculated  all  her  little  re- 
sources, to  see  if  she  could  pay  a  doctor,  and  get 
medicine  for  Mary — yet  all  in  vain.  She  knows 
that  timely  medicine,  ease,  fresh  air,  and  warmth, 


88  THE  Two  BIBLES. 

might  save  her — but  she  knows  that  all  these 
things  are  out  of  the  question  for  her.  She  feels, 
too,  as  a  mother  would  feel,  wfren  she  sees  her 
once  rosy,  happy  little  boy,  becoming  pale,  and 
anxious,  and  fretful ;  and  even  when  he  teases  her 
most,  she  only  stops  her  work  a  moment,  and 
strokes  his  poor  little  thin  cheeks,  and  thinks  what 
a  laughing,  happy  little  fellow  he  once  was,  till 
she  has  not  a  heart  to  reprove  him.  And  all  this 
day  she  has  toiled  with  a  sick  and  fretful  baby  in 
her  lap,  and  her  little,  shivering,  hungry  boy  at 
her  side,  whom  poor  Mary's  patient  artifices  can- 
not always  keep  quiet ;  she  has  toiled  over  the  last 
piece  of  work  which  she  can  procure  from  the 
shop,  for  the  man  has  told  her  that  after  this  he 
can  furnish  no  more.  And  the  little  money  that 
is  to  come  from  this  is  already  proportioned  out 
in  her  mind,  and  after  that  she  has  no  human 
prospect  of  more. 

But  yet  the  woman's  face  is  patient,  quiet,  firm. 
Nay,  you  may  even  see  in  her  suffering  eye  some- 
thing like  peace ;  and  whence  comes  it  ?  I  will 
tell  you. 

There  is  a  Bible  in  that  room,  as  well  as  in  the 
rich  man's  apartment.  Not  splendidly  bound,  to 


THE  Two  BIBLES.  89 

be  sure,  but  faithfully  read — a  plain,  homely,  much 
worn  book. 

Hearken  now,  while  she  says  to  her  children, 
"  Listen  to  me,  my  dear  children,  and  I  will  read 
you  something  out  of  this  book.  '  Let  not  your 
heart  be  troubled,  in  my  Father's  house  are  many 
mansions.'  So  you  see,  my  children,  we  shall  not 
always  live  in  this  little,  cold,  dark  room.  Jesus 
Christ  has  promised  to  take  us  to  a  better  home." 

"  Shall  we  be  warm  there,  all  day  ?"  says  the  little 
boy  earnestly,  "  and  shall  we  have  enough  to  eat  ?" 

"Yes,  dear  child,"  says  the  mother,  "  listen  to 
what  the  Bible  says,  '  They  shall  hunger  no  more, 
neither  thirst  any  more,  for  the  Lamb  which  is  in 
the  midst  of  them  shall  feed  them  ;  and  God  shall 
wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes.' " 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  little  Mary,  "for 
mother,  I  never  can  bear  to  see  you  cry." 

"But,  mother,"  says  little  Henry,  "won't  God 
send  us  something  to  eat  to-morrow  ?" 

"  See,"  says  the  mother,  "  what  the  Bible  says, 
1  Seek  ye  not  what  ye  shall  eat,  nor  what  ye  shall 
drink,  neither  be  of  anxious  mind.  For  your  Fa- 
ther knoweth  that  ye  have  need  of  these  things. 

"But,  mother,"  says  little  Mary,  "if  God  is 


90  THE  Two  BIBLES. 

our  Father,  and  loves  us,  what  does  he  let  us  be 
so  poor  for?" 

"Nay,"  says  the  mother,  "our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  was  as  poor  as  we  are,  and  God  certainly 
loved  him." 

"  Was  he,'  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  children,  you  remember  how  he  said, 
1  The  Son  of  Man  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head.' 
And  it  tells  us  more  than  once,  that  Jesus  was 
hungry  when  there  was  none  to  give  him  food." 

"  Oh !  mother,  what  should  we  do  without  the 
Bible  !"  says  Mary. 

Now  if  the  rich  man  who  had  not  yet  made  up 
his  mind  what  to  think  of  the  Bible,  should  visit 
this  poor  woman,  and  ask  her  on  what  she  grounded 
her  belief  of  its  truth,  what  could  she  answer  ? 
Could  she  give  the  argument  from  miracles  and 
prophecy  ?  Can  she  account  for  all  the  changes 
which  might  have  taken  place  in  it  through  trans- 
lators and  copyists,  and  prove  that  we  have  a 
genuine  and  uncorrupted  version  ?  Not  she  !  But 
how  then  does  she  know  that  it  is  true  ?  How, 
say  you  ?  How  does  she  know  that  she  has  warm 
life-blood  in  her  heart  ?  How  does  she  know  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  air  and  sunshine  ? 


THE   Two  BIBLES.  91 

She  does  not  believe  these  things,  she  knows 
them ;  and  in  like  manner,  with  a  deep  heart-con- 
sciousness, she  is  certain  that  the  words  of  her 
Bible  are  truth  and  life.  Is  it  by  reasoning  that 
the  frightened  child,  bewildered  in  the  dark,  knows 
its  mother's  voice  ?  No  !  Nor  is  it  by  reasoning 
that  the  forlorn  and  distressed  human  heart  kno^ws 
the  voice  of  its  Saviour,  and  is  still. 

Go  when  the  child  is  lying  in  its  mother's  arms, 
and  looking  up  trustfully  in  her  face,  and  see  if 
you  can  puzzle  him  with  metaphysical  difficulties 
about  personal  identity,  until  you  can  make  him 
think  that  it  is  not  his  mother.  Your  reasonings 
may  be  conclusive — your  arguments  unanswera- 
ble— but  after  all,  the  child  sees  his  mother  there, 
and  feels  her  arms  around  him,  and  his  quiet  un- 
reasoning belief  on  the  subject,  is  precisely  of  the 
same  kind  which  the  little  child  of  Christianity 
feels  in  the  existence  of  his  Saviour,  and  the  reality 
of  all  those  blessed  truths  which  he  has  told  in  his 
word. 


1il\n  /mm  3SUiit*.— In.l. 

TO    THE    EDITOR    OP    THE    NATIONAL    ERA. 

THE  fashionable  complaint  of  neuralgia  has  kept 
back  from  your  paper  many  "  thoughts,  motions, 
and  revolutions"  of  the  brain,  which,  could  they 
have  printed  themselves  on  paper,  would  have 
found  their  way  towards  you.  Don't  you  suppose, 
in  the  marvellous  progress  of  this  fast-living  age, 
the  time  will  ever  come,  when,  by  some  metaphy- 
sical daguerreotype  process,  the  thoughts  and  im- 
ages of  the  brain  shall  print  themselves  on  paper, 
without  the  intervention  of  pen  and  ink  ?  Then, 
how  many  brilliancies,  now  lost  and  forgotten  be- 
fore one  gets  time  to  put  them  through  the  slow 
process  of  writing,  shall  flash  upon  us  !  Our  poets 
will  sit  in  luxurious  ease,  with  a  quire  of  paper  in 
their  pockets,  and  have  nothing  to  do  but  lean 
back  in  their  chairs,  and  go  off  in  an  ecstacy,  and 
lo  !  they  will  find  it  all  written  out,  commas  and 

all,  ready  for  the  printer.     What  a  relief,  too,  to 

92 


LETTER  FROM  MAINE.  93 

multitudes  of  gentle  hearts,  whose  friends  in  this  1 
busy  age  are  too  hurried  to  find  much  time  for 
writing.  /  Your  merchant  puts  a  sheet  of  paper  in-  J 
side  of  Ms  vest — over  his  heart,  of  course — and  in 
the   interval  between   selling  goods  and  pricing 
stocks,  thinks  warm  thoughts  towards  his  wife  or 
lady-love — and  at  night  draws  forth  a  long  letter, 
all   directed    for    the    post.  !    How   convenient ! 
"Would  that  some  friend  of  humanity  would  offer  a 
premium  for  the  discovery  ! 

The  spiritual  rapping  fraternity,  who  are  aufait 
in  all  that  relates  to  man's  capabilities,  and  who 
are  now  speaking  ex  cathedra  of  all  things  celes- 
tial and  terrestrial,  past,  present,  and  to  come,  can 
perhaps  immediately  settle  the  minutiae  of  such  an 
arrangement.  One  thing  is  quite  certain :  that  I 
if  every  man  wore  a  sheet  of  paper  in  his  bosom, 
on  which  there  should  be  a  true  and  literal  ver- 
sion of  all  his  thoughts,  even  for  one  day,  in  a 
great  many  cases  he  would  be  astounded  on  read- 
ing it  over.  Are  there  not  many  who  would  there 
see,  in  plain,  unvarnished  English,  what  their 
patriotism,  disinterestedness,  generosity,  friend- 
ship, and  religion  actually  amounts  to  ?  Let  us 
fancy  some  of  our  extra  patriotic  public  men  com- 


94  LETTEE  FROM  MAINE. 

paring  such  a  sheet  with  their  speeches.  We 
have  been  amused,  sometimes,  at  the  look  of  blank 
astonishment  with  which  men  look  for  the  first 
time  on  their  own  daguerreotype.  Is  that  me  ? 
Do  I  look  so  ?  .  Perhaps  this  inner  daguerreo- 
type might  prove  more  surprising  still.  "  What, 
I  think  that  ?  I  purpose  so — and  so  ?  What 
a  troublesome  ugly  machine  !  I'll  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it !" 

But  to  drop  that  subject,  and  start  another.  J  It 
seems  to  us  quite  wonderful,  that  in  all  the  ecsta- 
cies  that  have  been  lavished  on  American  scenery, 
this  beautiful  State  of  Maine  should  have  been 
so  much  neglected ;  for  nothing  is  or  can  be 
more  wildly,  peculiarly  beautiful — particularly  the 
scenery  of  the  sea-coast.  A  glance  at  the  map 
will  show  one  the  peculiarity  of  these  shores.  It 
is  a  complicated  network  and  labyrinth  of  islands — 
the  sea  interpenetrating  the  land  in  every  fanci- 
ful form,  through  a  belt  of  coast  from  fifteen  to 
twenty  miles  wide.  The  effect  of  this,  as  it  lies 
on  the  map,  and  as  it  lives  and  glows  in  reality, 
is  as  different  as  the  difference  between  the  poetry 
of  life  and  its  dead  matter  of  fact. 

But  supposing   yourself  almost   anywhere   in 


LETTEE  FROM  MAINE.  95 

Maine,  -within  fifteen  miles  of  the  shore,  and  you 
start  for  a  ride  to  the  sea  side,  you  will  then  be  in 
a  fair  way  to  realize  it.  The  sea,  living,  beau- 
tiful, and  life-giving,  seems,  as  you  ride,  to  be 
everywhere  about  you — behind,  before,  around. 
Now  it  rises  like  a  lake,  gemmed  with  islands,  and 
embosomed  by  rich  swells  of  woodland.  Now 
you  catch  a  peep  of  it  on  your  right  hand,  among 
tufts  of  oak  and '  maple,  and  anon  it  spreads  on 
your  left  to  a  majestic  sheet  of  silver,  among  rocky 
shores,  hung  with  dark  pines,  hemlocks,  and 
spruces. 

The  sea  shores  of  Connecticut  and  Massachu- 
setts have  a  kind  of  baldness  and  barenness  which 
you  never  see  here.  As  you  approach  the  ocean 
there,  the  trees  seem  to  become  stunted  and  few 
in  number,  but  here  the  sea  luxuriates,  swells,  and 
falls,  in  the  very  lap  of  the  primeval  forest. 
The  tide  water  washes  the  drooping  branches  of 
the  oak  and  maple,  and  dashes  itself  up  into  whole 
hedges  of  luxuriant  arbor  vitse. 

No  language  can  be  too  enthusiastic  to  paint  the 
beauty  of  the  evergreens  in  these  forests  The 
lordly  spruce,  so  straight,  so  tall,  so  perfectly  de- 
fined in  its  outline,  with  its  regal  crest  of  cones, 


96          LETTER  FROM  MAINE. 

sparkling  with  the  clear  exuded  gum,  and  bearing 
on  its  top  that  "  silent  finger"  which  Elliot  de- 
scribes as  "  ever  pointing  up  to  God" — the  ancient 
white  pine  with  its  slender  whispering  leaves,  the 
feathery  larches,  the  rugged  and  shaggy  cedars — 
all  unite  to  form  such  a  "  goodly  fellowship,"  that 
one  is  inclined  to  think  for  the  time  that  no  son 
of  the  forest  can  compare  with  them.  But  the 
spruce  is  the  prince  among  them  all.  Far  or 
near,  you  see  its  slender  obelisk  of  dark  green, 
rising  singly  amid  forests  of  oak  or  maple,  or  mar- 
shalled together  in  serried  ranks  over  distant  hills, 
or  wooding  innumerable  points,  whose  fantastic 
outlines  interlace  the  silvery  sea.  The  heavy 
blue  green  of  these  distant  pines  forms  a  beautiful 
contrast  to  the  glitter  of  the  waters,  and  affords  a 
fine  background,  to  throw  out  the  small  white 
wings  of  sail  boats,  which  are  ever  passing  from 
point  to  point  among  these  bays  and  harbors. 
One  of  the  most  peculiar  and  romantic  features 
of  these  secluded  wood-embosomed  waters  of 
Maine  is  this  sudden  apparition  of  shipping  and 
sea  craft,  in  such  wild  and  lonely  places,  that  they 
seem  to  you,  as  the  first  ships  did  to  the  simple 
savages,  to  be  visitants  from  the  spirit  land. 


LETTER  FROM  MAINE.  97 

You  are  riding  in  a  lonely  road,  by  some  bay  that 
seems  to  you  like  a  secluded  inland  lake ;  you  check 
your  horse,  to  notice  the  fine  outline  of  the  vari- 
ous points,  when  lo  !  from  behind  one  of  them, 
swan-like,  with  wings  all  spread,  glides  in  a  ship 
from  India  or  China,  and  wakes  up  the  silence,  by 
tumbling  her  great  anchor  into  the   water.     A 
ship,  of  itself  a  child  of  romance — a  dreamy,  cloud- 
like,  poetic  thing — and  that  ship  connects  these 
piney  hills  and  rocky  shores,  these  spruces  and 
firs,  with  distant  lands  of  palm  and  spice,  and 
speaks  to  you,  in  these  solitudes,  of  groves  of 
citron  and  olive.     We  pray  the  day  may  never 
come  when  any  busy  Yankee  shall  find  a  substi- 
tute for  ship  sails,  and  take  from  these  spirits  of 
the  wave  their  glorious  white  wings,  and  silent, 
cloud-like  movements,  for  any  fuss  and  sputter  of 
steam  and  machinery.     It  will  be  just  like  some 
Yankee  to  do  it.     That  race  will  never  rest  till 
everything  antique  and  poetic  is  drilled  out  of  the 
world.     The  same  spirit  which  yearns  to  make 
Niagara  a   mill-seat,  and  use  all  its  pomp  and 
pow'er  of  cloud,  and  spray,  and  rainbow,  and  its 
voices  of  many  waters,  for  accessories  to  a  cotton 
factory,  would,  we  suppose,  be  right  glad  to  trans- 


98  LETTER  FROM  MAINE. 

form  the  winged  ship  into  some  disagreeable 
greasy  combination  of  machinery,  if  it  would  only 
come  cheaper.  The  islands  along  the  coast  of 
Maine  are  a  study  for  a  tourist.  The  whole  sail 
along  the  shores  is  through  a  never  ending 
labyrinth  of  these — some  high  and  rocky,  with 
castellated  sides,  bannered  with  pines — some  rich- 
ly wooded  with  forest  trees — and  others,  again, 
whose  luxuriant  meadow  land  affords  the  finest 
pasturage  for  cattle.  Here  are  the  cottages  of 
fishermen,  who  divide  their  time  between  farming 
and  fishing,  and  thus  between  land  and  water 
make  a  very  respectable  amphibious  living.  These 
people  are  simple-hearted,  kindly,  hardy,  with  a 
good  deal  of  the  genial  broad-heartedness  that 
characterizes  their  old  father,  the  ocean.  When 
down  on  one  of  these  lonely  islands  once,  we 
were  charmed  to  find,  in  a  smaH  cottage,  one  of 
the  prettiest  and  most  lady-like  of  women.  Her 
husband  owned  a  fishing-smack  ;  and  while  we 
were  sitting  conversing  in  the  house,  in  came  a 
damsel  from  the  neighborhood,  arrayed,  in  all 
points,  cap-a-pie,  according  to  the  latest  city 
fashions.  The  husband  came  home  from  a  trip 
while  we  were  there.  He  had  stopped  in  Portland, 


LETTER  FROM  MAINE.  99 

and  brought  home  a  new  bonnet  for  his  wife,  of 
the  most  approved  style,  and  a  pair  of  gaiter 
shoes  for  his  little  girl.  One  of  our  company  was 
talking  with  him,  congratulating  him  on  his  re- 
tired situation. 

"  You  can  go  all  about,  trading  in  your  vessel, 
and  making  money,"  he  said,  "and  here  on  this 
retired  island  there  is  no  way  to  spend  it,  so  you 
must  lay  up  a  good  deal." 

"  Don't  khow  about  that,"  said  the  young  man  ; 
"  there's  women  and  girls  everywhere  ;  and  they 
must  have  their  rings,  and  their  pins,  and  para- 
sols and  ribbons.  There's  ways  enough  for  money 
to  go." 

On  Sunday  mornings,  these  islanders  have  out 
their  sail-boats,  and  all  make  sail  for  some  point 
where  there  is  a  church.  They  spend  the  day  in 
religious  service,  and  return  at  evening.  Could 
one  wish  a  more  picturesque  way  of  going  to 
meeting  of  a  calm  summer  morning  ? 

So  beautiful  a  country,  one  would  think,  must 
have  nurtured  the  poetic  sentiment ;  and  Maine, 
accordingly,  has  given  us  one  of  our  truest  poets — 
Longfellow.  Popular  as  his  poetry  is,  on  a  first 
reading,  it  is  poetry  that  improves  and  grows  on 


100          LETTER  FROM  MAINE. 

one  by  acquaintance  and  study ;  and  more  par- 
ticularly should  be  studied  under  the  skies  and 
by  the  seas  of  that  State  whose  beauty  first  in- 
spired it.  No  one  who  views  the  scenery  of 
Maine  artistically,  and  then  studies  the  poems 
of  Longfellow,  can  avoid  seeing  that  its  hues  and 
tones,  its  beautiful  word-painting,  and  the  exquisite 
variety  and  smoothness  of  its  cadences,  have  been 
caught,  not  from  books  and  study,  but  from  a 
long  and  deep  heart  communion  with  Nature. 
We  recollect  seeing  with  some  indignation,  a  few 
years  ago,  what  seemed  to  us  a  very  captious  criti- 
cism on  Longfellow ;  and  it  simply  occurred  to 
us  then,  that  if  the  critic  had  spent  as  much  time 
in  the  forest  as  the  poet,  and  become  as  familiar 
with  the  fine  undertones  of  Nature,  such  a  critique 
never  would  have  appeared.  A  lady  who  has 
lately  been  rambling  with  us  among  the  scenery 
of  Maine,  and  reading  Longfellow's  poems,  said, 
the  other  day — "  He  must  have  learned  his  mea- 
sure from  the  sea;  there  is  just  its  beautiful  ripple 
in  all  his  verses" — a  very  beautiful  and  very  just 
criticism.  There  are  some  fine  lines  in  Evange- 
line,  that  give  us  the  pine  forests  of  Maine  like  a 
painting  : 


LETTER  FROM  MAINE.          101 

"  This  is  the  forest  primeval — the  murmuring  pines  and 

the  hemlocks 
Bearded  with  moss  and  with  garments  green,  indistinct 

in  the  twilight 

Stand  like  Druids  of  Eld,  with  voices  sad  and  prophetic, 
Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest  on  their 

bosoms : 
Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep-voiced  neighboring 

ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail  of  the 

forest/' 

Drawn  to  the  very  life  !  "We  have  seen  those 
very  Druids — graybeards,  dusky  garments  and 
all,  on  the  shores  of  Maine,  many  a  time ;  and  if 
anybody  wants  to  feel  the  beauty  and  grandeur 
of  the  picture,  he  must  go  to  some  of  those  wild 
rocky  islands  there. 

Longfellow's  poetry  has  the  true  seal  of  the 
bard  in  this  :  that  while  it  is  dyed  rich  as  an  old 
cathedral  window  in  tints  borrowed  in  foreign 
language  and  literature — tints  caught  in  the  fields 
of  Spain,  Italy,  and  Germany — yet,  after  all,  the 
strong  dominant  colors  are  from  fields  and  scenes 
of  home.  So  truly  is  he  a  poet  of  Maine,  that  we 
could  wish  to  see  his  poems  in  every  fisherman's 
cottage,  through  all  the  wild  islands,  and  among 


102         LETTER  FROM  MAINE. 

all  the  romantic  bays  and  creeks  of  that  beautiful 
shore. 

It  would  be  a  fine  critical  study  to  show  how 
this  undertone  of  native  imagery  and  feeling 
passes  through  all  that  singular  harmony  which 
the  poet's  scholarcraft  has  enabled  him  to  compose 
from  the  style  of  many  nations ;  and  some  day 
we  have  it  in  heart  to  do  this  in  a  future  letter. 
At  present  we  will  not  bestow  any  further  tedious- 
ness  upon  you. 

Very  truly,  H.  B.  S. 


THE  last  letter  from  Maine  !  how  painful  a  word 
this  may  be,  only  those  who  can  fully  appreciate 
this  beautiful,  hospitable,  noble-hearted  State,  can 
say. 

Maine  stands  as  a  living  disproval  of  the*  re- 
ceived opinion,  that  Northern  latitudes  chill  the 
blood,  or  check  the  flow  of  warm  and  social  feel- 
ing. There  is  a  fullness,  a  frankness,  and  free- 
dom, combined  with  simplicity,  about  the  social 
and  domestic  life  of  this  State,  which  reminds 
me  of  the  hospitality  and  generosity  of  Kentucky, 
more  than  anything  else,  and  yet  has  added  to  it 
that  stability  and  intelligent  firmness  peculiar  to 
the  atmosphere  of  New  England.  Perhaps  it  is 
because  Maine,  like  Kentucky,  is  yet  but  a  half- 
settled  State,  and  has  still  a  kind  of  pioneer, 
backwoods  atmosphere  about  it.  All  impulses 
.  which  come  from  the  great  heart  of  nature,  from 
the  woods,  the  mountains,  or  the  ocean,  are  al- 

(103) 


104          LETTER  FROM  MAINE. 

ways  pure  and  generous — and  those  influences  in 
Maine  are  yet  stronger  than  the  factitious  second- 
hand and  man-made  influences  of  artificial  life. 

Truly,  whether  we  consider  the  natural  beauty 
of  Maine,  or  the  intellectual  clearness  and  deve- 
lopment of  her  common  people,  or  the  unsophisti- 
cated simplicity  of  life  and  manners  there,  or  the 
late  glorious  example  which  she  has  set  in  the  eyes 
of  all  the  nations  of  the  earth,  one  must  say  she 
is  well  worthy  of  her  somewhat  aspiring  motto — 
the  North  Star !  and  the  significant  word, 
"Dirigo!" 

DIRIGO.  That  word  is  getting  to  have,  in  this 
day,  a  fullness  of  meaning,  that  perhaps  was  not 
contemplated  when  it  was  assumed  into  her  es- 
cutcheon— for  Maine  is  indeed  the  North  Star, 
and  the  guiding  hand  in  a  movement  that  is  to 
regenerate  all  nations — and  from  all  nations  the 
cry  for  her  guidance  begins  to  be  heard. 

It  is  said  that  the  very  mention  of  the  State  of 
Maine,  in  temperance  gatherings  in  England,  now 
raises  tumults  of  applause,  and  that  Neal  Dow 
has  been  sent  for  even  as  far  as  Berlin,  to  carry 
the  light  of  this  new  gospel  of  peace  on  earth, 
and  good  will  to  men. 


LETTEE  FBOM  MAINE.         105 

The  last  election  in  Maine,  taken  altogether,  is 
the  most  magnificent  triumph  of  principle,  pure 
principle,  that  the  world  ever  saw.     Thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  of  money  had  been  sent  by 
liquor  dealers  in  other  States  to  bribe  voters — it 
had   been   triumphantly  asserted   that   votes   in 
Maine  could  be  had  for  two  dollars  a  head — but 
when  they  came  to  try  the  thing  practically  upon 
her  sturdy  old  farmers  and  fishermen,  they  then 
got  quite  a  new  idea  of  what  a  Maine  man  was. 
The  old  aquatic  farmers,  who  inherit  all  the  noble 
traits  both  of  sea  and  land,  shook  their  hands 
most  emphatically  from   holding  bribes,  and  the 
mountain  farmers  showed  that  in  the  course  of 
their  agricultural  life  and  experiments  they  had 
learned,  among  other  things,  the  striking  difference 
between  wheat  and  chaff.     No  !  no  !  bribing  was 
plainly  "  no  go"  in  Maine  ;  the  money  was  only 
taken  by  a  few  poor,  harmless  loafers,  of  the  kind 
who  roost  on  rail  fences  on  a  sunny  day,  or  lean 
up  against  barns,  when  for  obvious  reasons  they 
are  in  no  condition  to  roost,  and  who  are  espe- 
cially interested  in  the  question  of  the  rights  of 
women  to  saw  wood. 

The  election  in  Maine  is  an  era  in  the  history 
5* 


106          LETTER  FROM  MAINE. 

of  elections,  because  there,  for  once,  men  of  prin- 
ciple forsook  all  party  lines  and  measures,  to  vote 
for  PRINCIPLE  alone.  Whigs  voted  for  Democrats, 
Democrats  for  Whigs,  with  sole  reference  to  their 
relation  to  the  temperance  cause,  and  thus  a  great 
and  memorable  victory  was  gained.  Party  is  the 
great  Anti-Christ  of  a  republican  government, 
and  the  discipline  of  party  has  hitherto  been  so 
stringent  that  it  really  has  been  impossible  to  de- 
termine the  sentiment  of  a  Christian  man  by  his 
vote,  except  so  far  as  it  might  signify  the  opinion 
of  the  party  with  which  they  were  connected. 
Maine,  in  agreement  with  her  motto,  "  Dirigo" 
has  set  the  example  of  two  very  great  and 
important  things.  One  is,  that  this  traffic  may 
be  suppressed  by  law;  and  the  other  is,  that 
men  of  principle  can  vote  out  of  their  party — and 
the  second  suggestion  is  quite  equal  in  value  with 
the  first.  For  if  men  can  vote  out  of  their  party 
for  one  great  question  of  right,  they  can  for  an- 
other ;  and  the  time  is  not  distant,  we  trust,  when 
the  noble  State  of  Maine  will  apply  the  same 
liberty  to  other  subjects. 

While  I  have  been  writing  this,  an  invisible 
spirit  has  been  walking  in  our  forests,  and  lo,  the 


LETPEK  FROM  MAINE.  107 

change !  The  serrated  ranks  of  spruces  are 
lighted  with  brilliant  forms  of  trees,  flame  coloured, 
yellow,  scarlet,  all  shining  out  between  the  un- 
changed steel  blue  of  the  old  evergreens.  If  one 
wants  the  perfection  of  American  forest  scenery, 
he  must  have  for  the  rainbow  illumination  of  au- 
tumn, a  background  of  sombre  black  green  like 
ours.  Fancy  the  graceful  indentations,  the  thou- 
sand lake-like  beautiful  bays  of  this  charming 
shore,  now  reflecting  in  their  mirror  this  hourly 
brightening,  pageant — fancy  the  ships  gliding  in 
and  out  from  Jeddo,  China,  California,  England ! 
and  you  can  fancy  the  regret  and  longing  of 
heart  with  which  I  leave  a  coast  so  beautiful. 
Fancy  that  you  see  dwellings,  speaking  alike  of 
simplicity  and  of  refinement — imagine  families 
where  intelligence,  heartiness,  warm  hospitality, 
and  true  Christian  principle,  all  conspire  to  make 
your  visit  a  pleasure,  and  your  departure  a  regret, 
and  you  can  fancy  a  more  intimate  reason  of  the 
sorrow  with  which  I  write  myself  no  longer  a  resi- 
dent of  that  State.  But  as  I  leave  it,  I  cannot 
but  express  the  wish  that  every  family,  and  every 
individual  may  remember  the  glory  which  their 
State  has  now,  and  the  character  which  it  has 


108          LETTER  FROM  MAINE. 

now  to  sustain  in  the  eyes  of  the  whole  civilized 
world. 

The  women  of  Maine  have  had  no  small  influ- 
ence in  deciding  the  triumph  of  the  cause  which 
sheds  such  lustre  on  their  State.  All  women,  as 
a  natural  thing,  are  friends  and  advocates  of  the 
cause  of  temperance,  a  cause  involving  so  much 
to  sons,  brothers,  and  husbands ;  and  the  Maine 
women  have  acted  most  decidedly  and  nobly  in  its 
support. 

To  the  "North  Star"  now  the  eyes  of  all  the 
world  are  turning,  and  we  must  look  to  it  to  guide 
us  in  everything  that  is  right  and  noble.  May 
that  star  be  seen  as  plainly  leading  the  generous 
cause  of  freedom !  that  cause  whose  full  success 
shall  wipe  from  the  American  escutcheon  its  only 
national  stain.  H.  E.  B.  S. 


,  nr 


"  OH,  dear  !  Christmas  is  coming  in  a  fortnight, 
and  I  have  got  to  think  up  presents  for  every- 
body !"  said  young  Ellen  Stuart,  as  she  leaned 
languidly  back  in  her  chair.  "  Dear  me  !  '  it's  so 
tedious  !  Everybody  has  got  everything  that  can 
be  thought  of." 

"  Oh,  no  !"  said  her  confidential  adviser,  Miss 
Lester,  in  a  soothing  tone.  "  You  have  means  of 
-buying  everything  you  can  fancy,  and  when 
every  shop  and  store  is  glittering  with  all  manner 
of  splendors,  you  cannot  surely  be  at  a  loss." 

"  Well,  now,  just  listen.  To  begin  with,  there's 
mamma  !  what  can  I  get  for  her  ?  I  have  thought 
of  ever  so  many  things.  She  has  three  card-cases, 
four  gold  thimbles,  two  or  three  gold  chains,  two 
writing  desks  of  different  patterns  ;  and  then,  as 
to  rings,  brooches,  boxes,  and  all  other  things,  I 
should  think  she  might  be  sick  of  the  sight  of 
them.  I  am  sure  I  am,"  said  she,  languidly  gazing 
on  her  white  and  jewelled  fingers. 

(109) 


110  CHRISTMAS. 

This  view  of  the  case  seemed  rather  puzzling  to 
the  adviser,  and  there  was  silence  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, when  Eleanor,  yawning,  resumed — 

"  And  then  there's  cousins  Ellen  and  Mary — I 
suppose  they  will  be  coming  down  on  me  with  a 
whole  load  of  presents ;  and  Mrs.  B.  will  send  me 
something — she  did  last  year;  and  then  there's 
cousins  William  and  Tom — I  must  get  them 
something,  and  I  would  like  to  do  it  well  enough, 
if  I  only  knew  what  to  get ! 

"Well,"  said  Eleanor's  aunt,  who  had  been 
sitting  quietly  rattling  her  knitting  needles  during 
this  speech,  "  it's  a  pity  that  you  had  not  such  a 
subject  to  practice  on  as  I  was  when  I  was  a  girl 
— presents  did  not  fly  about  in  those  days  as  they 
do  now.  I  remember  when  I  was  ten  yea,rs  old, 
my  father  gave  sister  Mary  and  me  a  most  mar- 
vellously ugly  sugar  dog  for  a  Christmas  gift,  and 
we  were  perfectly  delighted  with  it — the  very  idea 
of  a  present  was  so  new  to  us." 

"  Dear  aunt,  how  delighted  I  should  be  if  I  had 
any  such  fresh  unsophisticated  body  to  get  pres- 
ents for !  but  to  get  and  get  for  people  that  have 
more  than  they  know  what  to  do  with  now — to  add 
pictures,  books,  and  gilding,  when  the  centre- 


CHRISTMAS.  Ill 

tables  are  loaded  with  them  now — and  rings  and 
jewels,  when  they  are  a  perfect  drug !  I  wish 
myself  that  I  were  not  sick,  and  sated,  and  tired 
with  having  everything  in  the  world  given  me !" 

"  Well,  Eleanor,"  said  her  aunt,  "  if  you  really 
do  want  unsophisticated  subjects  to  practise  on,  I 
can  put  you  in  the  way  of  it.  I  can  show  you 
more  than  one  family  to  whom  you  might  seem  to 
be  a  very  good  fairy,  and  where  such  gifts  as  you 
could  give  with  all  ease  would  seem  like  a  magic 
dream." 

"  Why,  that  would  really  be  worth  while,  aunt." 
"Look  right  across  the  way,"  said  her  aunt. 
"  You  see  that  building." 

"  That  miserable  combination  of  shanties  ? 
Yes  I" 

"  Well,  I  have  several  acquaintances  there  who 
have  never  been  tired  of  Christmas  gifts,  or  gifts 
of  any  other  kind.  I  assure  you,  you  could  make 
quite  a  sensation  over  there." 

"  Well,  who  is  there  ?    Let  us  know !' 
"  Do  you  remember  Owen,  that  used  to  make 
your  shoes?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  something  about  him." 

"  Well,  he  has  fallen  into  a  consumption,  and 


112  CHRISTMAS. 

cannot  work  any  more,  and  he  and  his  wife  and 
three  little  children  live  in  one  of  the  rooms  over 
there." 

"  How  do  they  get  along  ?" 

"  His  wife  takes  in  sewing  sometimes,  and  some- 
times goes  out  washing.  Poor  Owen  !  I  was  over 
there  yesterday;  he  looks  thin  and  wistful,  and 
his  wife  was  saying  that  he  was  parched  with  con- 
stant fever,  and  had  very  little  appetite.  She  had, 
with  great  self-denial,  and  by  restricting  herself 
almost  of  necessary  food,  got  him  two  or  three 
oranges,  and  the  poor  fellow  seemed  so  eager  after 
them." 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  Eleanor,  involuntarily. 

"Now,  said  her  aunt,  "suppose  Owen's  wife 
should  get  up  on  Christmas  morning,  and  find  at 
the  door  a  couple  of  dozen  of  oranges,  and  some  of 
those  nice  white  grapes,  such  as  you  had  at  your 
party  last  week,  don't  you  think  it  would  make  a 
sensation  ?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  think  very  likely  it  might;  but 
who  else,  aunt  ?  You  spoke  of  a  great  many." 

"  Well,  on  the  lower  floor  there  is  a  neat  little 
room,  that  is  always  kept  perfectly  trim  and  tidy ; 
it  belongs  to  a  young  couple  who  have  nothing 


CHRISTMAS.  113 

beyond  the  husband's  day  wages  to  live  on.  They 
are,  nevertheless,  as  cheerful  and  chipper  as  a 
couple  of  wrens,  and  she  is  up  and  down  half  a 
dozen  times  a  day,  to  help  poor  Mrs.  Owen.  She 
has  a  baby  of  her  own  about  five  months  old,  and 
of  course  does  all  the  cooking,  washing,  and  iron- 
ing for  herself  and  husband  ;  and  yet,  when  Mrs. 
Owen  goes  out  to  wash,  she  takes  her  baby  and 
keeps  it  whole  days  for  her." 

"  I'm  sure  she  deserves  that  the  good  fairies 
should  smile  on  her,"  said  Eleanor;  "one  baby 
exhausts  my  stock  of  virtue  very  rapidly." 

"But  you  ought  to  see  her  baby,"  said  aunt 
E.?  "so  plump,  so  rosy,  and  good-natured,  and  al- 
ways clean  as  a  lily.  This  baby  is  a  sort  of  house- 
hold shrine ;  nothing  is  too  sacred  and  too  good 
for  it ;  and  I  believe  the  little,  thrifty  woman  feels 
only  one  temptation  to  be  extravagant,  and  that 
is  to  get  some  ornaments  to  adorn  this  little  di- 
vinity." 

"  Why,  did  she  ever  tell  you  so  ?' 

aNo;  but  one  day  when  I  was  coming  down 
stairs,  the  door  of  their  room  was  partly  open,  and 
I  saw  a  pedlar  there  with  open  box.  John,  the 
husband,  was  standing  with  a  little  purple  cap  on 


114  CHRISTMAS. 

his  hand,  which  he  was  regarding  with  mystified, 
admiring  air,  as  if  he  did'nt  quite  comprehend  ft, 
and  trim  little  Mary  gazing  at  it  with  longing 
eyes." 

"I  think  we  might  get  it,"  said  John. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  she,  regretfully;  "yet  I  wish 
we  could,  it's  so  pretty!" 

"  Say  no  more,  aunt.  I  see  the  good  fairy  must 
pop  a  cap  into  the  window  on  Christmas  morning. 
Indeed,  it  shall  be  done.  How  they  will  wonder 
where  it  came  from,  and  talk  about  it  for  months 
to  come !" 

"Well,  then,"  continued  her  aunt,  "in  the 
next  street  to  ours  there  is  a  miserable  building, 
that  looks  as  if  it  were  just  going  to  topple  over ; 
and  away  up  in  the  third  story,  in  a  little  room 
just  under  the  eaves,  live  two  poor,  lonely  old 
women.  They  are  both  nearly  on  to  ninety.  I 
was  in  there  day  before  yesterday.  One  of  them 
is  constantly  confined  to  her  bed  with  rheumatism, 
the  other,  weak  and  feeble,  with  failing  sight  and 
trembling  hands,  totters  about  her  only  helper ; 
and  they  are  entirely  dependent  on  charity." 

"  Can't  they  do  anything  ?  Can't  they  knit  ?" 
said  Eleanor. 


CHRISTMAS.  115 

"  You  are  young  and  strong,  Eleanor,  and  have 
quick  eyes  and  nimble  fingers ;  how  long  would  it 
take  you  to  knit  a  pair  of  stockings?" 

"  I !"  said  Eleanor.  "  What  an  idea !  I  never 
tried,  but  I  think  I  could  get  a  pair  done  in  a 
week,  perhaps !" 

"  And  if  somebody  gave  you  twenty-five  cents 
for  them,  and  out  of  this  you  had  to  get  food,  and 
pay  room  rent,  and  buy  coal  for  your  fire,  and  oil 
for  your  lamp" 

"  Stop,  aunt,  for  pity's  sake  !" 

"  Well,  I  will  stop,  but  they  can't ;  they  must 
pay  so  much  every  month  for  that  miserable  shell 
they  live  in,  or  be  turned  into  the  street.  The 
meal  and  flour  that  some  kind  person  sends  goes 
off  for  them  just  as  it  does  for  others,  and  they 
must  get  more  or  starve,  and  coal  is  now  scarce 
and  high  priced." 

"  Oh,  aunt,  I'm  quite  convinced,  I'm  sure ; 
don't  run  me  down  and  annihilate  me  with  all 
these  terrible  realities.  What  shall  I  do  to  play 
a  good  fairy  to  these  poor  old  women  ?" 

"If  you  will  give  me  full  power,  Eleanor,  I  will 
put  up  a  basket  to  be  sent  to  them,  that  will  give 
them  something  to  remember  all  winter." 


116  CH  K  IST MA  s. 

"  Oh,  certainly  I  will.  Let  me  see  if  I  can't 
think  of  something  myself." 

"  Well,  Eleanor,  suppose,  then,  some  fifty,  or 
sixty  years  hence,  if  you  were  old,  and  your 
father,  and  mother,  and  aunts,  and  uncles,  now  so 
thick  around  you,  laid  cold  and  silent  in  so  many 
graves — you  have  somehow  got  away  off  to  a 
strange  city,  where  you  were  never  known — you 
live  in  a  miserable  garret,  where  snow  blows  at 
night  through  the  cracks,  and  the  fire  is  very 
apt  to  go  out  in  the  old  cracked  stove ;  you  sit 
•crouching  over  the  dying  embers  the  evening  be- 
fore Christmas — nobody  to  speak  to  you,  nobody 
to  care  for  you,  except  another  poor  old  soul  who 
lies  moaning  in  the  bed — now,  what  would  you 
like  to  have  sent  you  ?" 

"Oh,  aunt,  what  a  dismal  picture  !" 

"  And  yet,  Ella,  all  poor,  forsaken  old  women 
are  made  of  young  girls,  who  expected  it  in  their 
youth  as  little  as  you  do,  perhaps  I" 

"  Say  no  more,  aunt.  I'll  buy — let  me  see — a 
comfortable  warm  shawl  for  each  of  these  poor 
women ;  and  I'll  send  them — let  me  see — oh !  some 
tea — nothing  goes  down  with  old  women  like  tea ; 
and  I'll  make  John  wheel  some  coal  over  to  them ; 


r 


CHRISTMAS.  117 

and,  aunt,  it  would  not  be  a  very  bad  thought  to 
send  them  a  new  stove.  I  remember  the  other  day, 
when  mamma  was  pricing  stoves,  I  saw  some,  such 
nice  ones, for  two  or  three  dollars." 

"  For  a  new  hand,  Ella,  you  work  up  the  idea 
very  well,"  said  her  aunt. 

"But  how  much  ought  I  to  give,  for  any  one 
case,  to  these  women,  say  ?" 

"  How  much  did  you  give  last  year  for  any  sin- 
gle Christmas  present  ?" 

" Why,  six  or  seven  dollars,  for  some;  those 
elegant  souvenirs  were  seven  dollars ;  that  ring  I 
gave  Mrs.  B was  ten." 

"  And  do  you  suppose  Mrs.  B was  any 

happier  for  it?" 

"No,  really,  I  don't  think  she  cared  much 
about  it ;  but  I  had  to  give  her  something,  because 
she  had  sent  me  something  the  year  before,  and  I 
did  not  want  to  send  sfpaltry  present  to  any  one 
in  her  circumstances." 

"  Then,  Ella,  give  ten  to  any  poor,  distressed, 
suffering  creature  who  really  needs  it,  and  see  in 
how  many  forms  of  good  such  a  sum  will  appear. 
That  one  hard,  cold,  glittering  diamond  ring,  that 
now  cheers  nobody,  and  means  nothing,  that  you 


118  CHRISTMAS. 

give  because  you  must,  and  she  takes  because  she 
must,  might,  if  broken  up  into  smaller  sums,  send 
real  warm  and  heart-felt  gladness  through  many 
a  cold  and  cheerless  dwelling,  and  through  many 
an  aching  heart." 

"  You  are  getting  to  be  an  orator,  aunt ;  but 
don't  you  approve  of  Christmas  presents  among 
friends  and  equals  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  her  aunt,  fondly  stroking 
her  head.  "  I  have  had  some  Christmas  presents 
that  did  me  a  world  of  good — a  little  book  mark, 
for  instance,  that  a  certain  niece  of  mine  worked 
for  me  with  wonderful  secrecy,  three  years  ago, 
when  she  was  not  a  young  lady  with  a  purse  full 
of  money — that  book  mark  was  a  true  Christmas 
present ;  and  my  young  couple  across  the  way  are 
plotting  a  profound  surprise  to  each  other  on 
Christmas  morning.  John  has  contrived,  by  an 
hour  of  extra  work  every  night,  to  lay  by  enough 
j  to  get  Mary  a  new  calico  dress ;  and  she,  poor 
soul,  has  bargained  away  the  only  thing  in  the 
jewelry  line  she  ever  possessed,  to  be  laid  out  on 
j^a  new  hat  for  him." 

-  "  I  know,  too,  a  washerwoman  who  has  a  poor 
lame  boy — a  patient,  gentle  little  fellow — who  has 


CHRISTMAS.  119 

lain  quietly  for  weeks  and  months  in  his  little 
crib,  and  his  mother  is  going  to  give  him  a  splen-. 
did  Christmas  present." 
"  What  is  it,  pray  ?" 

"  A  whole  orange  !    Don't  laugh.    She  will  pay 

ten  whole  cents  fo^r  it ;  for  it  shall  be  none  of  your 

cpmmon  oranges,  but  a  picked  one  of  the  very  best 

going !     She  has  put  by  the  money,  a  cent  at  a 

time,  for  a  whole  month  ;  and  nobody  knows  which 

will  be  happiest  in  it,  Willie  or  his  mother.  These 

are  such  Christmas  presents  as  I  like  to  think  of — 

j  gifts  coming  from  love,  and  tending  to  produce 

"  Jove  ;  these  are  the  appropriate  gifts  of  the  day. 

"  But  don't  you  think  that  it's  right  for  those 
who  have  money,  to  give  expensive  presents,  sup- 
posing always  as  you  say,  they  are  given  from  real 
affection?" 

"  Sometimes,  undoubtedly.  The  Saviour  did 
not  condemn  her  who  broke  an  alabaster-box  of 
ointment — very  precious — simply  as  a  proof  of 
love,  even  although  the  suggestion  was  made, 
i  this  migfyt  have  been  sold  for  three  hundred 
pence,  and  given  to  the  poor.'  I  have  thought  he 
would  regard  with  sympathy  the  fond  efforts  which 
human  love  sometimes  makes  to  express  itself  by 


120  CHRISTMAS. 

gifts,  the  rarest  and  most  costly.  How  I  rejoiced 
with  all  my  heart,  when  Charles  Elton  gave  his 
poor  mother  that  splendid  Chinese  shawl  a,nd  gold 
watch — because  I  knew  they  came  from  the  very 
fullness  of  his  heart  to  a  mother  that  he  could  not 
do  too  much  for — a  mother  thatj^as  done  and  suf- 
fered everything  for  him.  In  some  such  cases, 
when  resources  are  ample,  a  costly  gift  seems  to 
have  a  graceful  appropriateness  ;  but  I  cannot  ap- 
prove of  it,  if  it  exhausts  all  the  means  of  doing 
for  the  poor ;  it  is  better,  then,  to  give  a  simple 
offering,  and  to  do  something  for  those  who  really 
need  it." 

Eleanor  looked  thoughtful ;  her  aunt  laid  down 
her  knitting,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  serious- 
ness: 

"Whose  birth  does  Christmas  commemorate, 
Ella?" 

fl  Our  Saviour's,  certainly,  aunt." 

j"  Yes,"  said  her  aunt.  "And  when  and  how 
•was  he  born  ?  in  a  stable  !  laid  in  a  manger ;  thus 
born,  that  in  all  ages  he  might  be  kno^wn  as  the 
brother  and  friend  of  the  poor.  And  surely  it 
seems  but  appropriate  to  commemorate  His  birth- 
day by  an  especial  remembrance  of  the  lowly, 


CHEISTMAS.  121 

the  poor,  the  outcast,  and  distressed ;  and  if  Christ 
should  come  back  to  our  city  on  a  Christmas  day, 
where  should  we  think  it  most  appropriate  to  his 
character  to  find  him?  Would  he  be  carrying 
splendid  gifts  to  splendid  dwellings,  or  would  he 
be  gliding  about  in  the  cheerless  haunts  of  the  des- 
olate, the  poor,  the  forsaken,  and  the  sorrowful?" 

And  here  the  conversation  ended. 

***** 

"  What  sort  of  Christmas  presents  is  Ella  buy- 
ing ?"  said  cousin  Tom,  as  the  waiter  handed  in  a 
portentous-looking  package,  which  had  been  just 
rung  in  at  the  door. 

"Let's  open  it,"  said  saucy  Will.  "  Upon  my 
word,  two  great  gray  blanket  shawls !  These 
must  be  for  you  and  me,  Tom  !  And  what's  this  ? 
A  great  bolt  of  cotton  flannel  and  gray  yarn  stock- 
ings !" 

The  door  bell  rang  again,  and  the  waiter  brought 
in  another  bulky  parcel,  and  deposited  it  on  the 
marble-topped  centre  table. 

"What's  here?"  said  Will,  cutting  the  cord! 
"  Whew!  a  perfect  nest  of  packages!  oolong  tea! 
oranges !  grapes !  white  sugar !  Bless  me,  Ella 
must  be  going  to  housekeeping  !" 


122  CHRISTMAS. 

"  Or  going  crazy !"  said  Tom :  "  and  on  my 
word,"  said  he,  looking  out  of  the  window,  "  there's 
a  drayman  ringing  at  our  door,  with  a  stove,  with 
a  tea-kettle  set  in  the  top  of  it !" 

"Ella's  cook  stove,  of  course,"  said  Will;  and 
just  at  this  moment  the  young  lady  entered,  with 
her  purse  hanging  gracefully  over  her  hand. 

"  Now,  boys,  you  are  too  bad !"  she  exclaimed, 
as  each  of  the  mischievous  youngsters  were  gravely 
marching  up  and  down,  attired  in  a  gray  shawl. 

"Did'nt  you  get  them  for  us?  We  thought 
you  did,"  said  both. 

* "  Ella,  I  want  some  of  that  cotton  flannel,  to 
make  me  a  pair  of  pantaloons,"  said  Tom. 

"I  say,  Ella,"  said  Will,  "  when  are  you  going 
to  housekeeping?  Your  cooking  stove  is  stand- 
ing down  in  the  street ;  'pon  my  word,  John  is 
loading  some  coal  on  the  dray  with  it." 

"  Ella,  isn't  that  going  to  be  sent  to  my  office  ?" 
said  Tom;  "  do  you  know  I  do  so  languish  for  a 
new  stove  with  a  tea-kettle  in  the  top,  to  heat  a 
fellow's  shaving  water !" 

Just  then,  another  ring  at  the  door,  and  the 
grinning  waiter  handed  in  a  small  brown  paper 
parcel  for  Miss  Ella.  Tom  made  a  dive  at  it,  and 


CHRISTMAS.  123 

staving  off  the  brown  paper,  developed  a  jaunty 
little  purple  velvet  cap,  with  silver  tassels. 

"  My  smoking  cap  !  as  I  live,"  said  he,"  only  I 
shall  have  to  wear  it  on  my  thumb,  instead  of  my 
head — too  small  entirely,"  said  he,  shaking  his 
head  gravely. 

"Come,  you  saucy  boys,"  said  aunt  E ,  en- 
tering briskly,  "what  are  you  teasing  Ella  for?" 

"  Why,  do  see  this  lot  of  things,  aunt  ?  What 
in  the  world  is  Ella  going  to  do  with  them?" 

"  Oh  !  I  know !" 

"  You  know ;  then  I  can  guess,  aunt,  it  is  some  j 
of  your  charitable  works.  You  are  going  to  make  | 
a  juvenile  Lady  Bountiful  of  El,  eh?" 

Ella,  who  had  colored  to  the  roots  of  her  hair 
at  the  expose  of  her  very  unfashionable  Christ- 
mas preparations,  now  took  heart,  and  bestowed  a 
?ery  gentle  and  salutary  little  cuff  on  the  saucy 
head  that  still  wore  the  purple  cap,  and  then 
hastened  to  gather  up  her  various  purchases. 

"Laugh  away,"  said  she,  gaily;  "and  a  good 
many  others  will  laugh,  too,  over  these  things.  I 
got  them  to  make  people  laugh — people  that  are 
not  in  the  habit  of  laughing  !" 

"Well,  well,  I  see  into  it,"  said  Will;  "and  I 


124  CHRISTMAS. 

tell  you  I  think  right  well  of  the  idea,  too.  There 
are  worlds  of  money  wasted  at  this  time  of  the. 
year,  in  getting  things  that  nobody  wants,  and 
nobody  cares  for  after  they  are  got ;  and  I  am 
glad,  for  my  part,  that  you  are  going  to  get  up  a 
variety  in  this  line ;  in  fact,  I  should  like  to  give 
you  one  of  these  stray  leaves  to  help  on,"  said  he, 
dropping  a  $10  note  into  her  paper.  I  like  to  en- 
courage girls  to  think  of  something  besides  breast- 
pins and  sugar  candy." 

But  our  story  spins  on  too  long.  If  anybody 
wants  to  see  the  results  of  Ella's  first  attempts  at 
good  fairy  ism )  they  can  call  at  the  doors  of  two  or 
three  old  buildings  on  Christmas  morning,  and 
they  shall  hear  all  about  it. 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


